




















MELPOMENE DIVINA 


Melpomene, cui liquidam Pater 
Vocem cum cithara dedit, 

Totum muneris hoc tui est; 

Quod spiro et placeo, si placeo, tuum est! 

Horace. 


0 


MELPOMENE DIVINA; 


OR, 


POEMS ON CHRISTIAN THEMES. 


BY 



CHRISTOPHER LAOMEDON PINDAR. 

1 ) 


Vo<& r y Df c <5no, 

loo i 

'** ° f Washing 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO 
1867 . 

v 



I'd 
• :T3 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 
CHRISTOPHER LAOMEDON PINDAR, 


in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Southern District of Ohio. 




INTRODUCTION. 


o* 


When Julian the Apostate forbade the Chris¬ 
tians to teach either grammar, eloquence, or phi¬ 
losophy, and even to read any of the profane 
authors of classic literature, Gregory Nazianzcn 
loudly complained of this as the basest and most 
unjust contrivance of tyranny, whereby the Chris- 
tain cause received greater injury than from the 
bloody persecutions of three centuries. That cun¬ 
ning renegade saw clearly that, as long as the 
most learned men of the empire were Christians, 
all the artistic refinement of sophism would be 
scattered to the dust by the solid philosophy of a 
religion adorned with the choicest array of pagan 
genius. With naught but falsehood and shallow 




VI 


INTRODUCTION. 


embellishment, he found it impossible to rival and 
outdo the truth ornamented with substantial and 
genuine beauty. Hence his wicked scheme; hence 
his nefarious attempt to despoil the Saviour’s 
immaculate Spouse of her lovely and glittering 
apparel. 

But the Church showed herself fully equal to 
the emergency. No sooner had the invidious law 
been promulgated, than the illustrious Fathers of 
the East, with Nazianzen at their head, themselves 
wrote poems on various subjects of religion, which 
if, owing to the hastiness of their production, fell 
short of the lyrics of the Theban, at least were far 
superior to the pagan effusions of those times; 
while the eloquence of their orations was so ele¬ 
gant and sublime, that even in our age several 
learned critics look upon Basil, Gregory Nazianzen, 
and Chrysostom, as superior to all orators whether 
sacred or profane. Libanius himself, though a 
sophist and a bitter reviler of Christianity, testi¬ 
fied of his pupil, the great Basil, that he was in 


INTRODUCTION. 


Vll 


rapture as often as he heard him speak in public. 
If a Pagan experienced such emotion, what must 
have been the ecstasy of the Christian, when he 
listened the purest Attic dialect, such as Demos¬ 
thenes spoke and iEscliylus sang, swell on the 
breeze the exalted truths of his godly faith ! The 
envy of an apostate prince could not quench the 
fire of genius that glowed in the breasts of the 
Christian learned; within them dwelt the Muse. 
Nor did they want the productions of their classic 
predecessors: they found means, in spite of the 
unjust edict, to instruct their spiritual children in 
the beauties of pagan literature. Such men as we 
named above had not merely read Demosthenes, 
Cicero, Homer, and Yirgil; they had studied them ; 
they could repeat them word for word : out of their 
hands the dead letter might be snatched; in their 
immortal minds still lived the Attic sentence and 
Ionic verse. 

The same spirit, which animated these men, has 
influenced the true and great sons of the Church 


Vlll 


INTRODUCTION. 


in every age up to the present time. Some, in¬ 
deed, there were, and alas! have always been, 
whose narrow-minded bigotry cast a disgraceful 
gloom over her fair features. The sainted homi¬ 
list, who made it a crime for a clergyman to teach 
grammar, has unfortunately found too many of his 
mitred assecles. But these are only like the drift¬ 
ing clouds, which now and then flit across the 
golden sun. History, taken on the whole, unveils 
to us a fairer and, to every lover of learning and 
religion, more delectable scene. When barbarism 
spread like a deluge over the classic fields of the 
East, and threatened to destroy the last vestige of 
prsechristian science, it was the devout monk who 
sought even with peril of life to rescue from the 
devouring gulf the tattered parchment, on which 
were lettered the heroic Philippic and the sublime 
Iliad. On his breast he bore, together with his 
breviary and missal, the orations of Cicero and the 
poems of Yirgil. The only recreation he allowed 
himself, amid the labors of his mission and the 


INTRODUCTION. 


IX 


austerities of his asceticism, was that of trans- 
scribing the musty volume of pagan genius into a 
neater and more endurable book; for the sake 
that after generations might not be deprived the 
felicity of possessing that which his Mother, the 
Church, told him to value so much. Often, too, 
when reading the rapturous verses which Homer 
lavished on his Grecian hero, and the charmful 
rhythm which Horace swelled to the honor of his 
Cyprean queen, was he inflamed with a holy de¬ 
sire of singing the wondrous works of the God- 
Man, and the lovely beauties of the Queen of 
Heaven. The seductive strains of the fabled 
siren allured not to vice the breast covered with 
the cilicium; they opened not to Ovidian love- 
songs the lips crimsoned each morning with divine 
blood: but they fired in his breast the love of 
Jesus; they opened his lips to the praise of Mary. 

Influenced by the above considerations I have 
ever since the commencement of my literary studies 
cherished an ardent desire of blending, to the ex- 


X 


INTRODUCTION. 


tent of my slender abilities, the exalted truths of 
the Christian faith with the ornaments of a refined 
science and literature. One of the fruits of this 
my desire is the little volume which I now present 
to the public. I have entitled it Melpomene Divina, 
or, the Divine Songstress, in honor of the Holy 
Virgin, for whom I justly claim the distinctions 
which the ancient bards lavished on Minerva and 
the Muse. Such a title also the contents of the 
book, which consists of poems breathing a Chris¬ 
tian spirit, and perfumed with the fragrance of the 
Mystical Rose, very properly demanded. Of the 
poetical Nine I gave the preference to Melpomene, 
because she was a more favorite Muse with the 
ancient poets, and, though sometimes claimed ex¬ 
clusively by later tragedians, was originally and 
generally, in accordance with the significancy of 
her name, invoked as the goddess of song and 
poetry. 

As I have interspersed through the work ap¬ 
propriate preambles, and given at the end expla- 


INTRODUCTION. 


XI 


natory notes, I refrain here from a further elucida¬ 
tion. That the book is very imperfect, I am fully 
convinced of; that it be but taken by another as 
a spur to elicit a more perfect one in illustration 
of a similar theme, is my earnest desire. The 
many and almost unceasing demands of a higher 
order have allowed me to bestow only a few 
“tempora subseciva” on a work, to which I would 
have gladly devoted day and night. As such it 
can hardly be anything else than deficient in many 
respects. Yet if I be the cause of giving to but 
one person the pleasure of a moment in perusing 
these pages, and still more if one be thence in¬ 
spired to send a single whisper of love to the 
saintly beings carolled in them, I shall consider 
myself happy, and my labors more than sufficiently 
repaid. 

C. L. P. 


ClRCLEVILLE, 1867 . 



CONTENTS 


-*o«- 

Prologue. 17 

MUSE-OFFERINGS. 

Who is the Muse ?. 25 

Haunts of the Muse. 27 

Children of the Muse. 30 

THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 

The Vision of the Night. 3G 

First-Fruits of the Faith. 42 

Burning of Rome. 47 

The Thundering Legion. 50 

The Golden Ladder. 52 

Cecilia. 55 

Dorothea. 58 

St. George and the Dragon. 61 

The Forty Crowned. 65 

The Vision of the Day. 68 

(xiii) 


















XIV 


CONTENTS. 


THE CHRISTIAN AND TnE MOSLEM. 

Carisius and Otelia. 76 

Godfrey de Bouillon.*. 86 

Robert and Lucia. 89 

Battle of Lucena. 93 

The Woful News. 96 

The Moslem Minstrel’s Lamentation. 102 

\ 

Ali Aben Fahar. 104 

The Virgin’s Combat. 108 

Fall of Szigeth. 113 

Battle of Lepanto. 117 

PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 

Landing of Columbus. 125 

The Eclipse.:. 129 

The Carib’s Capture. 133 

The Relic of Cueybas. 137 

First Sight of the South Sea. 140 

The Rescue. 143 

Baptism on the Battle-Field. 147 

Death at the Foot of the Cross. 151 

The Trapper’s Dream. 155 

Marquette. 157 






















CONTENTS. 


XV 


ADDRESSES. 

To my Maylily. 169 

To St. Rose of Lima. 171 

To Pius IX. 172 

To my Mother. 176 

To Christopher Columbus. . 177 

To George Washington. 178 

To a Ciceronian..... 179 

To a Poet Friend. 180 

To the Waters. 181 

To the Mountains. 182 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The Presents. 185 

I stood upon a Mountain. 187 

The Fisher’s Wife. 190 

Departing. 191 

The Stars. 192 

Nothing and Something. 193 

The Advantage of Learning. 194 

Retirement. 196 

Forget Me Not. 199 

The Poet. 200 






















XVI 


CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

The Contended Vase. 207 

Death of Savonarola. 210 

La Charbonniere. 213 

The Orphan. 217 

Shepherd and Shepherdess. 220 

Laus Conjugii. 221 

Laus Virginis. 223 

Our Country. 224 

The American Maiden’s Song. 229 

L’Ennui. 230 

LONGER POEMS. 

The Captive of Charity. 235 

Philomena. 250 

The Sainted Giant. 282 

Epilogue . 299 


Notes 


303 

















PROLOGUE. 

Vade, liber, verbisque meis loca grata saluta!— Ovid. 


Lonely ’neath the shady beech-tree 
On the flowery sward I lay; 

Lovely songsters o’er me warbling 
Hailed the rosy dawn of day. 

Down below me rolled the river 
Silently his dimpled tide, 

Now r and then a sprightly minnow 
Showed his glittering scaly side. 

Eastward spread my natal city, 

Hid in smoke and haze of morn, 

Westward stretched the lengthy lowlands 
Covered with luxuriant corn. 

From the city’s many belfries 
Rang the varied morning chimes, 

Some to toll the hour of labor, 

Others holy offerings’ times. 

Pleasure-filled my eyes I rested 
On the charmful, various scene, 

On the spring-clad shore and river, 

On the day-lamp’s ruddy sheen. 

3 


(17) 


18 


PROLOGUE. 


Gladdened with the sound I listened 
To the bells’ heraldic notes, 

To the songs the feathered warblers 
Carolled with melodious throats. 

Yet a boy I was, and boyish 

Were my thoughts and were my schemes— 
Nature loved I, nature sought I, 

Nature pictured all my dreams. 

Often in my rural rambles, 

By some streamlet’s greenly side 
Paused I, and surveyed the fishes 
Through the crystal waters glide. 

Often strolling through the forest 
Suddenly I stopped my feet, 

Eyed and listened the canary 
Trill his morning carol sweet. 

Often too beneath that beech-tree 
Lost in wond’ring joy I lay, 

Saw the same enchanting landscape, 

Heard the self-same church-bells play. 

Yet my thoughts ne’er eagled.higher, 
Tempted ne’er a godlier air, 

Pleased but for the passing moment 
With the earth so lovely fair. 

Ne’er I thought that nature’s beauties, 
Throstles’ songs and church-bells’ chimes 
Could be imitated, rivalled 
By the poet’s wordy rhymes. 


PROLOGUE. 


19 


“Poetry,” a learned doctor 
Oft me told, “is foolery; 

When a student turneth crazy, 

He then writeth poetry.” 

So I thought no more about it, 
Troubled not my boyish brain 

With the labor of exchanging 
Nature’s note to poet’s strain. 

Not until that vernal morning, 
When beneath the beech I lay, 

Flashed athwart my musing fancy 
Poetry’s first genial ray. 

Clad in own and borrowed graces 
Horace’s Melpomene, 

Risen from the musty pages, 

Living, singing, smiled on me. 

Yet not long I eyed her features; 
For a beauty-beaming maid, 

At her right, superior genius, 

Purer taste and lore displayed. 

Eke her knew I; for her image 
Oft in churches had I seen, 

Where she, loved by men and loving, 
Shone arrayed in queenly sheen. 

Her to me the ancient pointed: 

“Lo, the new Melpomene! 

Me regard but as the handmaid 
Of this Queen of Poetry!” 


20 


PROLOGUE. 


More I heard not, more I saw not. 
Slumber closed my dazzled eye— 

When I waked, the sun above me 
Blazoned in the noonday sky. 

But another sun within me 
Now diffused its genial rays ; 

My o’erclouded fancy lighted 

With its new and cheering blaze. 

To my feet I sprang, and carolled 
With the songsters of the air ; 

Like a painter drew the landscape 
Of the spring-time fresh and fair. 

With the fish I swam the river, 

With the eagle cleft the sky, 

With the chimes devout of church-bells 
Flew my thoughts to realms on high. 

When I reached my natal city, 

I no more a city viewed: 

Rural scenes before me floated, 

Scenes with life and speech imbued. 

In the beauties of the seasons, 

In the study of mankind, 

In the page of ancient legends 

Lived and thought and joyed my mind. 

What I thus mused o’er I pencilled 
In the subsecivian hour, 

Seated or in lone apartment, 

Or beneath the shady bow’r. 


PROLOGUE. 


21 


Long you have consoled and joyed me, 
Many pleasant hours me brought, 

You, my darling songs and poems, 

You, the offspring of my thought! 

Now into the world I send you, 

Show you to the critic’s eye— 

Some may praise you, some may slight you. 
Others raise their foelike cry. 

Yet be held not by the latter; 

But go onward well content, 

If but one you please beside him 
Who into the world you sent. 

I 

Lonely yet I sometimes linger 

’Neath the beech at summer eve— 

Come, loved poems, and my lone heart 
With your friendly strains relieve! 


3* 


N 




/ \ 

























I 










































MUSE-OFFERINGS. 






MUSE-OFFERINGS. 


WHO IS THE MUSE? 

Quo, Musa, tenclis?—H orace. 

Where dwelt the Muse, when on the plains 
Of Bethlehem the silvery strains 
Of Seraphs waked the simple swains ? 
Where sang the Muse ? 

When from the heavens beamed the star 
His speaking light upon Senaar, 

And drew the Magi from afar, 

Where shone the Muse ? 

When eyeing from his throne the sun 
His Maker dying sought to shun 
The horrid scene behind clouds dun, 

Where hid the Muse ? 

When the Apostles through the world 
The pagan deities downward hurled, 

And thence the cross’s sign unfurled, 
Where stayed the Muse? 

When poets heard a new chord twang, 

Of themes unknown before them sang, 

And chimes and organs strangely rang, 
Who was their Muse ? 


(25) 



MUSE-OFFERINGS. 


Was she the .one of yore desired, 

Who Homer and the Theban fired, 

And Yirgil and his friend inspired— 

Th’ Aonian Muse ? 

Who on Parnassus’ pictured height 
Enjoyed th’ Olympian thund’rer’s sight, 
And filled with Heliconian light 
Sons of the Muse ? 

Or fled the Muse, and gave her place 
To one of nobler, godlier race, 

When Christiau turned the Pagan face, 
And changed the Muse ?— 

Methinks, the blessed sisters Nine 
But changed their place and tune and sig 
In heaven now they glorious shine, 

Still reign the Muse. 

That newer Muses there they found, 
United them a new queen crowned, 

And all their wreaths about her wound— 
The heavenly Muse. 

Mary I mean, the Maiden Queen, 

Who took the Nine with tender mien, 
And shed on them a purer sheen— 

The Christian Muse. 

In heaven ’mid angelic choirs, 

On earth, where beauty her attires, 

In poet’s heart of good desires : 

There dwells the Muse. 


HAUNTS OF THE MUSE. 


27 

Of her and with her aid I sing, 

Her beauties o’er the land I ring, 

To her with heart and mind I cling— 

The Christian Muse. 


HAUNTS OF THE MUSE. 


O'lfj.aq Mood' <f{Xr)(7£ ds <puXov dotdd »v. 

Homf.r. 


I. 


The sun shines brightly in the skies, 
Cool breezes fan the air, 

The earth smiles gayly ’neath her locks 
Of flower-braided hair. 


Grand is the sun, his noble brow 
With fatherly love glows, 

From conscious might perennial still 
His genial life’s warmth flows. 

Fair is the earth, her rosy lips 
Yie with her violet eyes, 

Her lilied bosom gently swells, 

In silken green she lies. 

Away I flee from chambers mute, 
From out the crowded street, 
Across the gay and dappled fields 
The rural Muse to meet. 




28 


MUSE-OFFERINGS. 


Yon, where the shady beech-crowned hill 
O’erlooks the smiling plain, 

She waits my troubled heart to soothe 
With her consoling strain. 

There by her side I seat me down 
Upon the flower-strewn ground, 

Her beauteous face upon my breast, 

My arms her neck around. 

Then gently whispering she points 
To me the sunlit blue, 

The blooming meadows smiling in 
Their robes of greenly hue. 

Sweet lays of love and rural joys 
Thence we united sing : 

Pleased smile the playsome vales and skies, 
With joy the woodlands ring. 


II. 

Low glimmering the wintry sun 
Glides through the clouded skies, 
Dank, misty vapors from the earth 
Distressed and mournful rise. 

Grave is the sun, his parent heart 
With deep-felt sorrow bleeds— 
Too far removed his genial warmth 
To pour on dying meads. 


HAUNTS OF THE MUSE. 


29 


Sad is the earth, stretched shivering ’neath 
Her dress of mourning white ; 

What fading charms yet strive to please, 
The cruel northwinds blight. 

Love’s dangling groves drip icicles, 

The song-bred hill lies bare, 

No warbling songster flits athwart 
The dark and storm-brewed air. 

And where, my Muse, thou tarriestnow?— 
I think, and trembling fear !— 

Oh, come into my chamber warm, 

My lonely heart to cheer ! 

She comes, and sits her down with me 
Before the blazing hearth: 

Too swiftly fly the wonted hours 
Amid renewed love’s mirth. 

# 

No more, indeed, the lyre invite 
The charms of varied spring; 

But lays of not less happier note, 

Home’s honeyed joys, we sing. 

The fame of legendary knights 
And charming dames we breathe, 

And round each happy pair the crown 
Of winter’s lilies wreathe. 


4 


I 


30 


MUSE-OFFERINGS. 


CHILDREN OE THE MUSE. 

At mihi jam puero coelestia sacra placebant, 

Inque suum furtim Musa trahebat opus. 

Gratia, Musa, tibi ; naxu tu solatia praebes; 

Tu curre requies, tu medicina venis!— Ovid. 

Ope to me, Muse, the secrets of thy heart! 

Who are the children of thy love, impart 
To me, thy child ! 

No secrets from her sons the Muse conceals. 

List then, my child, what treasured thoughts reveals 
My mother-breast! 

Where’er thou seest a youth, whose lofty mind 
Transcends the grovelling thoughts of vulgar kind, 
Yet sweet and mild 

Compassionates the woes of ignorant poor, 

And stands a champion at the hovel’s door; 

Fears not to wrest 

From tyrant hands the rod of tyranny, 

And hurl the curse of human misery 
Upon their heads; 

Whose heart melts ’neath the beauteous maiden’s 
charm, 

Her sacred rights who rescues from the arm 
Of sternness wild; 


CHILDREN OF THE MUSE. 


31 


Delights to come oft to my tuneful shrine, 

And drink the limpid stream from fount divine 
My bounty sheds: 

To him, my son, the secrets of my heart, 

Its pangs and loves and wishes I impart! 

He is my child ! 




THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


4* 


(33) 




THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN 


\ 


The following poems have been composed from a motive of 
admiration for those illustrious heroes and heroines who, when 
the seed of Christianity had scarcely grown into a slender 
plant, and to all human appearance seemed fated soon to 
wither away under the scorching blast of Pagan persecution, 
irrigated it with their heart’s blood so abundantly, that ere 
long it increased into a tree, the bi’anches of which extended 
all over the earth. To give anything like an adequate de¬ 
scription of what they underwent in the cause of humanity 
and religion, would cei'tainly be a task far beyond the abili¬ 
ties of the most gifted mind; for, as that most Ciceronian of 
Christian writers, Lactantius Firmianus, says, applying to his 
subject the lines of the Roman bard: 

“ Non mihi, si linguae centum sint oraque centum, 

Ferrea vox, omnes scelerum comprendere formas, 

Omnia poenarum genera percurrere nomina possim, 

quas judiees per provincias justis atque innocentibus intule- 
runt.” Nor has the author ever entertained so gigantic a 
thought. His only aim has been to present as agreeably as 
possible some scenes characteristic of the first three centuries. 
Of these some, like the Vision of the Night and St. George and 
the Dragon, are little more than images fictitiously formed in 
his brain. Others, again, like the Vision of the Day and the 
Thundering Legion, bear the stamp of historic truth, whatever 
skeptic pedants may advance to the contrary. Yet is it not 
at all necessary to insist on such few prodigies, how striking 

( 35 ) 



36 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


soever and convincing they may appear: the Church herself 
is the miracle kxt ij'0%nv j those, which we generally term 
miracles, are only brilliant emanations from her, like the daz¬ 
zling rays reflected from the golden sun. 


THE VISION OF THE NIGHT. 


Jam vero varise, nocturno tempore visse, 

Terribiles form® bellum motusque monebant; 

Multaque per terras vates oracla furenti 

Pectore fundebant, tristes minitantia casus.— Cicero. 


’Twas night, and on his purple couch Augustus sleep¬ 
less lay, 

Revolving with ambitious glee the honors of the day: 

The Senate and the Roman People had with loud ac¬ 
claim 

Him greeted with the “Father of his Country”’s death¬ 
less name. 

“What prosperous fate, immortal gods!” his rapturous 
soul exclaimed; 

“Has hovered o’er me since great Csesar me his heir 
proclaimed! 

When good Sabidienus first me bade my low retreat 

Leave, and with eagles of revenge my uncle’s murderers 
meet. 




THE VISION OF THE NIGHT. 37 

Still young was I, scarce had I my praetexta laid aside, 

And Rome’s proud veteran leaders loud my beardless 
chin decried; 

Old Antony defiantly his boastful standards reared, 

And Cicero with caustic wit at my pretensions sneered. 

Yet trusting to my prosperous star, and that unquenched 
flame, 

Which Caesar-like my youthful arms urged on to death¬ 
less fame, 

I grasped the iron rod of war, plucked out the slander¬ 
ous tongue, 

And reared my eagles triumphing my countless foes 
among. 

i 

Soon sank Rome’s vaunted freedom on Philippi’s field 
of gore, 

Anon the grey-haired rival fell on Egypt’s lustful shore. 

No Roman since e’er durst to snatch the sceptre from 
my hands, 

No barbarous foe withstood my arms on Alps or Lybian 
sands. 

And what great loss from Tully’s hate sustained my 
noble name? 

Lo ! bards divine in measured lines sing my undying- 
fame ! 

Nor need I stoop from lofty throne to gain their lavish 
praise, 

More anxious they to sing than I to list their grateful 
lays. 


38 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


To-day, what princely honors on my godly brow were 
poured ! 

How up the listening heavens wide the los triumphant 
soared ! 

In vain I feigned their royal gifts with patriot mien to 
dread, 

Diviner and perennial powers were lavished on my 
head. 

Ah! I despise this vulgar throng, these minions of 
gain! 

Not they, but I alone me gained the wide world’s sole 
domain ! 

“Who that above me?”—lo ! before him shone in bril¬ 
liant glare, 

As if the lightning’s lurid streak, a spirit of the air. 

In form a beauteous youth, whose lofty mien and noble 
face 

Portrayed the dazzling lustre of the bright ethereal 
race : 

His rosy cheeks and bluey eyes shone like Apollo’s 
fair, 

And down his neck in golden ringlets streamed his 
glossy hair. 

In snow-white robe with sparkling gems adorned he was 
arraved, 

V 1 

His left hand grasped a shield, his right a sword flain- 
miferous swayed. 


THE VISION OF THE NIGHT. 


39 


Augustus turned with deadly fright upon his purple bed, 

As suddenly the charmful vision changed to horrid 
dread. 

“ Who that above thee ?” now the terror-breathing 
spirit cried; 

“ Dar’st thou, proud tyrant, God’s almighty power to 
deride ? 

Ah ! vain are all thy lofty hopes, thy proud, ambitious 
schemes: 

The Power above ere long shall dwindle them to futile 
dreams. 

Know, while or hates thee or adores thy foe and 
crouching slave, 

Lewd revellings and funeral shrieks shall in thy palace 
rave: 

While minions thy power and bliss proclaim in hon¬ 
eyed song, 

Thou weakest and unhappiest shall sit thy joys among. 

In vain on young Marcellus rests thy eye with parent 
love, 

Scarce shown to earth, his life demand the stern de¬ 
crees above. 

Yipsanius shall sudden death meet on Campania’s 
plain ; 

Tiberius, the cruel, alone shall haplessly remain. 

Why on thy beauteous Julias thou gazest with delight? 

Grim exile’s woes by thee sent soon their lustful charms 
shall blight. 


40 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


Thy fawning bard their secret pleasures wantonly shall 
gaze, 

And sing thy shame ere end in Moesia’s wastes his 
gloomy days. 

But, hark! what cheering melodies ring from Judea’s 
plains ! 

Away I must to join my brethren’s God-announcing 
strains ! 

Know further, then, proud tyrant, how at this lone 
midnight hour 

Descends to crush thy puny gods the one God in his 
pow’r! 

From sinful thralls the shackled slave of pleasure to 
redeem, 

O’er error’s darksome wastes of woes to shed his truth¬ 
ful beam, 

In fleshly substance framed divinely from a spotless 
Maid, 

In form a lovely babe, he on a little straw is laid. 

Forced in a lowly stable, through thy pride-swelling 
decree, 

To lie amid the wintry night in shivering poverty, 

None throng around of all he comes to free of galling 
chains, 

None save the "Virgin and her Spouse and simple Jewish 
swains. 

Yet o’er the blessed cradle myriad spirits of the skies 

Their gladness and their homage breathe in heavenly 
melodies; 


THE VISION OF THE NIGHT. 


41 


Yet on their way athwart Peraea’s rocks and Juda’s 
sands 

High to the King of kings the princes of Chaldea’s 
lands. 

Divinely blessed they, who thus their vassal-treasures 
bring 

Him, whom ere long all monarchs of the earth must 
own their King! 

Accursed they, who vaunt the world to shake with 
Caesar-nod, 

Thy impious heirs, that first will dare to war against 
their God! 

In vain their vengeful sword shall flood the earth with 
harmless gore, 

Their victims’ standard proud shall wave on every sea 
and shore. 

Thrice hundred years the eagle will in lamb’s gore flesh 
his beak, 

When up shall spring the deathless lamb, and rule with 
sceptre meek. 

Then Caesar’s worthiest son shall rear the sign despised, 
the cross, 

And gods shall dwindle into fables laughable and 
gross. 

Their favorite haunt itself, proud Rome, shall sentence 
their base flight, 

And, once the queen of darkness, thence shall be the 
queen of light. 


42 


TIIE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


Nor e’en ambitious Caesar’s heirs shall undisputed 
shine, 

The monarchs of the world, upon their favorite Pala¬ 
tine : 

The last, a stripling of thy name, shall drop the broken 
rein, 

And holy Pontiffs thence shall hold in Rome their 
peaceful reign. 

But now my message is fulfilled—hence must I speed 
away, 

To join my comrades in our new-born God’s praise¬ 
swelling lay!” 

Like lightning pierced he through the walls.—Again all 
dark and lone 

Augustus lay—his griefshot breast heaved a despairing 
groan. 


FIRST-FRUITS OF THE FAITH. 

Satelles, i, ferrum rape, 

Perfunde cunas sanguine !—Hym. Brev. 

“Where is the new-born King of Jews? 

We come his birth to hail!” 

Chaldea’s princes guileless ask. 

Judea’s king turns pale. 

Before his dark and bloody mind 
Into a quenchless flame 
Rebellion’s smothered ashes gleam 
With that portentous name. 




FIRST-FRUITS OF THE FAITH. 


43 


All night his sleepless, bloodshot eye 
At scenes of carnage gleams, 

And in his moan-used ear resound 
The slaughtered infants’ screams. 
Morn streaks with red the wintry east, 
And stealthily he calls 
His minion butchers to the work 
That e’en their hearts appalls : 

4 

“Another king strives to usurp 
My hard-won, just domain, 

By heavenly signs, it seems, foretold 
O’er Israel’s realms to reign. 

But, whether God or man, shall e’er 
My sceptre I resign, 

And flee before a wailing babe, 

Though vaunted as divine? 

No I still your trenchant blades can cull 
The flower in its bud 1 
What recks it, though all Bethlehem 
Swim in babes’ harmless blood ? 

Him sure to reach, rush on that town, 
When next sets in the night, 

And slay all that within the last 
Two years sprang first to light!” 

Night came, and in unconscious sleep 
The threatened village lay, 

The unintended all at home, 

Th’ intended sole away. 


44 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


No sound disturbed the midnight air, 

No little one more wept; 

But bedded by their mothers’ side 
They soft and warmly slept. 

Hark! what terrific yells at once 
From every quarter ring ! 

Lo ! everywhere what torches red 
Fiends blood-stained wildly swing ! 

With thirsty swords they madly rush 
Into each bolted door, 

And spout upon each mother-breast 
Her loved infant’s gore. 

In vain the mothers gently pray 
To soothe the savage horde; 

In vain themselves in wild despair 
Rush on the blood-drenched sword ; 

In vain they labor to elude 
The fierce hyenas’ quest; 

In vain at last they frantic clasp 
Their infants to their breast— 

No artfulness the prowlers’ scent 
Of babe’s gore can elude; 

No prayers can soothe the steel-clad hearts 
For every feeling crude : 

Like bloodhounds they unweariedly 
Scent their devoted prey, 

And coldly on the milky fount 
The babe still sucking slay. 


FIRST-FRUITS OF THE FAITH. 


45 


Amid these thousand mother-breasts, 

That each my pity claim, 

Yet beats with bitterer grief my heart 
At thy, sweet Rachel, name! 

Scarce twelve times had the silvery moon 
Careered the earth around 
Since, wedded to young Phanuel, 

Thy bridal wreath was wound. 

Bless’d nuptials ! whence the fruit of love, 
Thy sweet and lovely boy, 

His mother’s picture, fair and mild, 

His father’s hope and joy. 

What happier lot than thine, to sit 
Aside thy Phanuel, 

Your living love-boon on thy lap, 

Your own dear Samuel! 

And shall eke this delightful home 
Glare in the funeral brand ? 

Shall eke this first and only boy 
Bleed ’neath the murderer’s hand ? 

Oh, horror! bursts the chamber-door— 

In rush the bloody crowd, 

Their dripping sabres swinging high— 
“Your babe!” they cry aloud. 

“ Strike me, afore my son ye slay!” 

The father brave replies. 

“ My blood shall mingle with my child’s !” 
The mother frantic cries. 

5 * 


46 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


He rashes ’twixt his loved ones 
And the barbarians wild; 

She on her bosom in her dress 
Wraps her scarce wakened child. 

Alas ! what valor and despair 
Can cope with number’s bands? 

The valiant father armless lies 
O’erpowered by ruffian hands. 

The mother struggling scarce has seen 
How down the dagger flies— 

Low gasps her lovely babe—his blood 
Her milk-white bosom dyes. 

Oh, mother ! and could dastards thus 
Forget their mothers’ throes, 

And coldly eye the crimsoned breast, 
Whence their own life arose ? 

Are all men then not formed alike, 

Not all a mother own ? 

Or has a monster bred those hearts 
Not fleshly, but of stone? 

Sweet Rachel! yet adown my cheeks 
The tears of pity roll; 

Yet o’er thy murdered boy with thee 
I griefshot do condole. 

And though sunk down in depthless grief 
Thou will’s! not be consoled, 

Yet, pray, look up and in the skies 
Thy angel dear behold 1 


BURNING OF ROME. 


47 


But thou, inhuman tyrant I type 
Of that detested crew, 

Which e’er have revelled in men’s blood 
Their foul hands to imbrue ! 

Not stayed thy curse—which, when to fling 
On despots weaklings dread, 

Th’ Eternal Justice thundering hurls 
Upon the tyrant’s head L 




BURNING OF ROME. 

Ille dies primus leti, primusque malorum 
Caussa fuit.— Virgil. 

What gayly decked comedian whirls 
In his chariot through the streets, 

With his painted face and perfumed curls, 
Fresh from venereal feats ? 

The wanton strumpet with soft glee 
Th’ imperial pander eyes, 

The crouching slave low bends his knee, 
The good alone deep sighs. 

’Tis Nero, aye! in evil hour 

Sprung forth to the world’s disgrace, 
Madly rushing in lust-mingled pow’r 
Along the tyrant’s trace. 




48 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


From natal Antium he tracks 
His satellites of woe, 

Where mounting in sulphureous racks 
Rome’s flames of ruin glow. 

That work is his—a poet feigned 
He has versed the fate of Troy, 

And now comes to glut his eyes foul-stained 
With Priam’s envied joy. 

Another city from Rome’s dust 
Shall spring to grace his name; 

A golden palace wills his lust 
To spread his wanton fame. 

Out of the city, thwart the meads 
By the Tiber’s waters laved, 

Upward to the Sabine hill he speeds, 

Where once proud Tatius raved. 

Th’ embattled tower he ascends, 

Decked in theatric trails ; 

With dancing, song, and music blends 
The tire-scourged victims’ wails. 

Heart-piercing shrieks of millions rise 
From low huts and princely halls ; 

The wild hissing flames mount to the skies, 
Loud crash the crumbling walls. 

The domes of princely Palatine 
Sink with terrific sound, 

The regal wealth of Capitoline 
Melts on the heated ground. 


BURNING OF ROME. 


49 


In vain the fiery tempest’s soar 
Myriad arms undaunted brave; 

Vain the fountains, channels, river pour 
Their copious, ceaseless wave : 

On drives the maddened flaming blast 
Along the wealth-strewn streets ; 

On to homes new and distant fast 
The flame devouring fleets. 

As when upon the battle-field 
The unwearied soldier’s war, 

And already thousand foemen yield 
To their victorious car ; 

Sudden from out their marshalled host 
Unknown new traitors spring— 

Confusion smites th’ undaunted most; 

Death flaps her bloody wing. 

So w 7 hen the glimmering flames the shower 
Of the warring waters drank, 

And beneath the sturdy manly pow r er 
The fires already sank ; 

Lo ! here and there, on every side 
Dark, muffled demons ran, 

And to realms smiling, far and wide, 

Of black wastes led the van. 

“ Who are ye ? villains !” thousands cry— 
Fierce they draw th’ avenging steel— 
“Dare and strike !” the grinning fiends reply; 
“ We do the emperor’s will 1” 


50 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


And triumphing they onward rush 
The lambent flames to spread, 

Rome’s ancient palaces to crush, 

And heap the mountain dead. 

Still on his tower the tyrant beast 
Sings and dances with wild joy, 

And his eye gluts with the fiendish feast 
Of realized old Troy. 

He fears not: by his lying soul 
Can eke this crime be decked; 

And all Rome’s fury he can roll 
On Christ’s long hated sect. 


THE THUNDERING LEGION. 

Ex vs(fiu)v di ol fhza- 
i)<T£ (jpovrdq aiatov 
<p#£yp.o. Xa/ATcpat ff^Xd-ov dxr'i- 
Vc£ <7T£[)()-aq a.7ZOp7)YVU[J.£Vai. 

’ApTivodv d'rjpwsq s-ara- 
aav #£uu adpaat 
nt&ojAevot. 

Pindar. 

In Moravia’s blood-drenched forest 
Lay the panting Roman host; 
Fled had all their martial courage, 
All their vaunting jeer and boast. 




THE THUNDERING LEGION. 


51 


Far around no tiny streamlet 
Through the scorched valley crept, 

Not a cloud in rainy showers 

Through the simmering heavens swept. 

Round their camp atween the fir-trees 
Glared the Quadi’s lurking eye— 

Deadly silence reigned—and fiercely 
Rose the savage battle-cry. 

To their feet the wearied Romans 
With Mavortian struggle sprang, 

Grasped their arms—but from their parched 
Lips no proud “ Per Martem” rang. 

From his war-horse called Aurelius, 

On his Christian Meletine— 

They with clinched swords on the war-field 
Knelt and prayed the Help Divine. 

Strangely looked the startled pagan— 

Up they rose—and lo ! a cloud 

From the east upspringing swiftly 
Wraps the heaven in its shroud. 

Softly o’er the panting Romans 
Cool aud copious rain-drops flow: 

From their left they quaff the shower, 

With their right hand charge the foe. 

O’er their heads the cooling shower, 

O’er their foes the howling storm : 

They with strength renewed battling, 

These stretched low with dire alarm ! 


52 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


In their terror-stricken faces 

Blows the thund’ring hail-brewed wind, 

And the lurid streaks of lightning 
With sulphureous sheen them blind. 

On the ground sink wounded thousands, 
To the woods the blinded fly; 

And through all the fir-grown forest 
Rings the Quadi’s funeral cry. 

Seventh time emperor Aurelius 
By his soldiers is proclaimed; 

And the brave Armenian cohorts 
Are the Thundering Legion named. 


THE GOLDEN LADDER. 

Quanto gaudio exsultare credendus est illorum animus, qui 
corporis admixtione solutus in coelestes ignes sempiternasque 
domos, unde exierat, revertit! 

Auctor de Consolatione. 

O’er the doomful towers of Carthage 
Night’s black shade of silence fell, 

Where Perpetua, the martyr, 

Lingered in her prison cell. 

Stretched immovable she fainted 
On the horse-shaped board of pain, 

With her feet bound in the nervus 
Gory from the cruel strain. 




THE GOLDEN LADDER. 


58 


Freed of cares the tender infant 
Slept upon his mother’s breast; 

She, too, slumbered : heavenly spirits 
Had her pained limbs eased to rest. 

Sudden through the gloomy dungeon 
Poured a bright, ethereal light, 

And before the slumbering matron 
Was outspread a marvellous sight: 

She beheld a golden ladder 

Reaching from her parent clime 

To the heavens, yet so narrow, 

But one could at once it climb. 

Both its sides with sharp-edged weapons 
Threatening to the eye were spread: 

Swords and hooks and knives and lances, 
All that grim war ever bred. 

At the ladder’s foot a dragon 
Of a huge and direful size 

Lay upcoiled, to fright the daring 
Longer for tk’ inviting skies. 

Yet defiant of the monster 
See ! young Saturus appeared, 

Bounded o’er him, and the ladder 
To its last round scaled unfeared. 

Turning then unto the matron : 

“Come, Perpetua, follow me ! 

But be careful, lest the dragon 
Dart his poisoned fangs at thee !” 

6 


54 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


“In the name of Christ I fear not!” 

Quick Perpetua replied ; 

Sprang up from her clanking fetters, 

And the monster fearless eyed. 

He, as if his rage forgetful, 

Gently drooped his horrid head, 

And the dauntless matron suffered 
On his awful brow to tread. 

Thence from step to step the golden 
Horror-mingled ladder high 
Scaled the heroine, till the liquid 
Regions trod she of the sky. 

There immeasured stretched a garden 
Decked with fructed trees and flowers, 
Cooled with nectar-streaming fountains, 
Dappled with ambrosial bowers. 

In the midst she saw ’tween thousands, ' 
Clad in snowy robes and bright, 

A tall man dressed like a shepherd 
And with hair like silver white. 

He was sitting on the greensward, 
Milking a white-fleeced ewe. 

When he saw th’ ascended matron 
Ravished at th’ unwonted view: 

“Hail, Perpetua! come hither!” 

Loud he cried ; “ be undismayed !” 

In her hands he put (gift wondrous !) 
Snow-white curds himself had made. 


CECILIA. 


55 


She them gently took and ate them ; 

“Amen !” answered all around.— 
Startled in her gloomy prison 
Waked Perpetua at the sound. 


But the sweet taste still remaining 
Told it not an empty dream ; 
And the martyr’s crown of glory 
Shed a brighter, nearer beam. 


CECILIA. 

Cede repugnanti; cedendo victor abibis! —Ovid. 

Night had closed the festal wedding, ceased had music’s 
charmful strain, 

To their homes with hearts buoyant had returned the 
kindred train : 

In her queenly nuptial chamber lonely sate the beau¬ 
teous maid, 

Like a blooming lily, in her snow-white bridal dress 
arrayed. 

/ 

Fair was she and sweet and lovely, modest, angel-like 
and bland, 

And no Roman youth but wistfully had wooed her happy 
hand; 




56 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


But, though forced an earthly spouse to wed, she fled 
his longing arms, 

For a heavenly spouse had long ago secured her virgin 
charms. 

Sadly beat her heart within her breast as lonely thus 
she sate, 

When, lo! oped the door, and in Valerian stepped with 
joys elate. 

Warmly swelled his youthful bosom as the bonny maid 
he eyed, 

And he proudly joyed for having spoused the loveliest 
Roman bride. 

Fain his sweet Cecilia to him would he rapturously 
have pressed; 

But the virgin now serenely rose, and gently him ad¬ 
dressed : 

“ My Valerian, know that I have my hand and my love 
given 

Long ago to one more worthy spouse, the King of earth 
and heaven! 

Yet shall hence thy true and loving spouse T never 
cease to be, 

Only let my virgin beauty e’er untouched remain in me; 

For if not—know that an angel of my heavenly spouse 
between 

Me and thee with flaming sword shall stand, and my 
chaste virtue screen!” 


CECILIA. 


57 

The warm youth divinely touched refrained, and mod¬ 
estly replied: 

“ May I ask to see this spirit bright, who watches o’er 
my bride?” 

“Well, thou may’st,” the virgin answered; “but not 
till the spotless wave 

Of our saving faith thy tainted brow from pagan vices 
lave. 

In the Appian sub-city of the Christians thou wilt find 

Pontiff Urban, who will gladly guide and ease thy 
wavering mind. 

Go to him, and, when baptized, again come thither at 
this hour, 

And my angel thou shalt see with me, and own his 
heavenly pow’r.” 

Thus Cecilia : and Valerian with wondering heart with¬ 
drew.— 

Night and day rolled by—and o’er proud Rome the 
shades of evening grew: 

From her palace-bordered streets hid in the darkness 
lone and dense 

Wound the youth into the dim-lit halls of the Valerian 
gens. 

With a fluttering breast and hurried step he paced the 
marble floor 

Of the atrium, and gently rapped the bridal chamber’s 
door; 


6 * 


58 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


Oped the valves with trembling hand, and lo! his 
beauteous spouse beside 

In celestial splendor wrapt he sees the angel toward 
him glide. 

Not a sword he waved—but in his hands two crowns he 
held of flowers, 

Plucked, the one from lilied fields, the other from the 
rosy bowers : 

With the wreath of snow-white lilies fair Cecilia he 
crowned, 

And around Valerian’s brow the garland of red roses 
wound. 


DOROTHEA. 

Flores amoenos ferre jubc rosai! —Horace. 

On the corse-strewn scaffold 
The virgin stands, 

To the bluey heavens 
She lifts her hands. 

“ Oh, my spouse beloved !” 

She longing sighs; 

“ Take thy bride unto thee, 

Who for thee dies! 




DOROTHEA. 


59 


From this bleaky desert 
My spirit wing 
To thy rosy gardens’ 

Perennial spring!” 

The which words Theophilus 
Contemptuous hears, 

And the good Dorothea 
Thus taunting jeers : 

“ Good maiden, pray, send me 
From thy sweet love 
Some fruit and some flowers 
That grow above !” 

“ Thou slialt have them !” sweetly 
The maid replied.— 

Then awhile the heavens 
She praying eyed. 

Scarce a minute prayed she, 

And see ! a bright, 

Glittering angel stood at 
The virgin’s right. 

To the youth he offered 
Three roses red 
And three apples mellow, 

And thus he said : 

“ Take these fruits and flowers, 
That grow above 
In the blooming gardens 
Of Dorothea’s love!” 


60 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


Up lie flew—and gently 
Her beauteous head 

On the block the virgin 
Heroic laid. 

Yet Theophilus wondering 
His present eyed; 

But, when bled the maiden, 
He loudly cried: 

“ I, too, am a Christian, 
Come, eke me slay !” 

To Apricius swiftly 
He leaped away. 

Where had died the virgin, 
He placed his head, 

And his crimsoned spirit 
Heavenward fled. 





ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 


G1 


ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 

Oiy ac-atpovreq aeipovro rr port ~irpaq 
aurou S’ elv\ ftupYim xarijaftie xsxXrjyovraq, 
yupaq . . . opiyovraq h aivrj drj ioty/TI. 

Homer. 

✓ 

To St. George, the valiant tribune, 

Came the people far and wide— 

Men and women, maids and children— 

And they screamed and wept and cried: 

“Oh, brave knight, come, haste and help us! 

Or we all shall wretched die 
’Neath the dragon’s teeth, who fiercely 
Kills and ruins far and nigh. 


In a rocky mountain cavern 
Night and day he lies upcoiled, 
And, ah! wo th’ unwary wanderer 
By his horrid den beguiled! 

Just now has he seized a maiden, 
Alexandra, sweet and fair: 

As she passed the cave, he bore her 
In his jaws into his lair.” 


62 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


“ Bring my armor and my war-horse! 

With God’s help the beast I slay!” 

Cried the knight, put on his armor, 

On his war-horse dashed away. 

’Twixt famed Haly’s roaring waters 
And huge, rocky mountain steeps, 

Where the Via Cappadocia 
Narrowing and snakelike creeps ; 

There, when night had eyed his ravings, 
Yet insatiate for prey, 

While the light shone outward, in a 
Cavern dark the dragon lay. 

High upon his mettled courser 

Pranced along th’ adventurous knight, 

By his left swung a Damaskin, 

And a huge lance grasped his right. 

On he bounded by the river 
And the rocky cliffs around— 

When, hark! from the mountain bowels 
Thundered a terrific sound. 

Sudden from his dreaded cavern 
Out the horrid monster dashed; 

Madly roared he like loud thunder 
And his eyes like lightning flashed. 

From his wide-oped jaws the forky 
Tongue hissed sulphurous flames around; 

In huge windings snakelike ending 
Furrowing swept his tail the ground. 


ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 


63 


With scales thickly laid and closely 
Was his monstrous back o’erspread : 

Both he shot forth like a serpent, 

And four footed onward sped. 

Toward the knight he madly darted, 

With his dreaded mouth oped wide. 

Terror struck the mettled war-horse 
Reared up high, and pranced aside. 

Seizing now his lance, and aiming 
At his foe the knight it flung ; 

But the shivered splinters only 
Idly from his scaled back sung. 

Vexed to rage the furious monster 
Yawning at the warrior flew, 

Lashed his tail, and horse and rider 
To the ground low quivering threw. 

Fain he would have turned devouring, 
But the knight still conscious spied 

Him unsealed, and thrust his broadsword 
To the hilt into his side. 

Down he fell, huge, power-and-lifeless, 
Swimming in his heart’s black blood. 

O’er him, breathing thankful prayers 
The victorious champion stood. 

But, see! what mysterious maiden 
From the cavern joyous springs, 

Bath’d in tears before the victor 
To his knees thanks pouring clings? 


64 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


“ What! behold I Alexandra, 

Famed dead in the cave beneath? 

What mysterious power saved thee 
From the dragon’s cruel teeth?” 

“Aye, brave knight! and scarcely know I 
How escaped I dismal death; 

Clutched already ’twixt his teeth and 
Smothering in his poisonous breath. 

But a stranger hand with wondrous 
Power held the beast inthralled, 

And from brutally devouring 
Me at once his rage appalled. 

Flung into a darksome corner 
I untasted breathless lay; 

Every moment seemed my last one, 

Ne’er I dreamed to see the day. 

Suddenly the dreaded monster 
Dashed out as if driven thence.— 

Hope renewed—behind the dragon 
Groped I through the darkness dense. 

When at last the light beamed on me, 

Here I saw the combat fierce, 

’Neath my eyes thee, my deliverer, 

Through his heart my captor pierce.” 

“God be praised!” St. George cried thankful 
With delight his bosom glowed— 

On his steed he took the maiden, 

And triumphant homeward rode. 


THE FORTY CROWNED. 


65 


THE FORTY CROWNED. 

Ite triumphales circumdati tempora lauru !— Ovid. 

On Sebaste’s frozen lake 

Forty Christian soldiers stood : 

Fiercely blew the northern blast, 

And congealed their flushless blood. 

Brave were they and true and stanch, 

And on many a gory field 

Had they to their eagle twelfth 
Forced the haughty foe to yield. 

But in vain their gallant deeds 
Could a tyrant assuage: 

They were Christians—and must 
Glut the thankless pagan’s rage. 

Driven from the warmed camp 
Naked on the icy plain— 

Three long hours had fled—yet swept 
O’er the lake their joyous strain. 

On the shore near by a bath 
Warmly heated was prepared 

For the coward, who the pangs 
Of the wintry blast not dared. 

7 


66 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


Yet before, like Christian braves, 

On the ice they took their stand, 

Had they prayed that not a man 
Might be wrested from their band. 

At the bath a vigil-guard 

Watched the martyrs on the lake.— 

Midnight reigned—the watchmen slept, 
But the janitor kept wake. 

As he gazed the martyr-band, 

Lo! a dazzling splendor beamed 

O’er their heads, and all the lake 
With celestial spirits gleamed. 

Thirty-nine he saw, of whom 
Each a crown held in his hand, 

Which they placed upon the brows 
Of the joying martyr-band. 

“ Thirty-nine?”—the janitor 

Asked himself—“ how can it be ? 

Were not forty soldiers placed 
Naked on the frozen sea? — 

Ah! here is the mystery solved: 

See yon dastard coward there 

Sneaking toward the heated bath, 

And deprived thus of his share ! 

What strange thought my bosom fires?— 
Why not I his crown me gain ? 

That the Christian God is true 

Clearly shows yon glorious train.— 


THE FORTY CROWNED. 


6t 


Aye, I go: a few hard hours 
Will secure me endless joys ; 

Vainly bliss I seek here, there 
Naught my happiness e’er cloys.” 

Said, and bounding o’er the ice 
He atween the band him placed; 

And eftsoons an angel eke 

With a crown his forehead graced. 

Ah! how blissful was his lot! 

Oh! how dire the coward’s doom! 

Basely fled he from the ice, 

In the bath to find his tomb. 

But the forty on the lake 

Sang anew their joyous strain, 

Morning eyed their souls in heav’n, 
Lit their corses on the plain. 


68 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


THE VISION OF THE DAY. 

Quantum valeat boc signuro, et quid babeat potestatis, in 

promptu est; quum omnis dasmonum cobors boc signo expel- 

latur ac fugetur.—L actantius. 

’Twas noon, and from the snow-capped Alpine crests 
the golden rays 

Of Sol alternate to and fro in dazzling, quivering blaze 

Danced on the polished steel of helmets, lances, swords, 
and shields 

Of warriors prancing on their steeds athwart Etruria’s 
fields. 

Brave champions they, in camp fatigues and battle’s 
din grown old; 

No barbarous weald, no smiling plain, that not their 
valor told; 

Their lips laughed danger, from their eyes flashed a de¬ 
fiant glare, 

And conscious their war-steeds snuffed with glee the 
death-filled air. 

Their leader proudly gazed upon his stanch and fearless 
band, 

As valiantly they vied to execute his least demand. 

Yet young was he, but dear to all as brave Constan- 
tius’ son, 

And loudly hailed by warriors for the spoils his arms 
had won. 


THE VISION OF THE DAY. 


69 


For struggling ’gainst a rival by a tyrant’s smile up¬ 
held 

He step by step the haughty foe had from his realms 
repelled; 

Arminius’ warlike sons had forced back to their forest- 
hold, 

And Gaul’s rebellious hordes beneath his vassal-flag 
enrolled. 

Yet in the queenly capital the haughty rival swayed, 

And dimly shone th’ imperial crown unless with Rome 
arrayed. 

Hence decked with Gallia’s laurels thwart the Alp- 
king’s hoary crest 

His legions had he poured, the diadem from his foe to 
wrest. 

Brave were his trusty warriors, but doubled by the foe, 

And pensively good Constantine mused on th’ unequal 
blow: 

What, howe’er bold his warriors were, could one oppose 
to two, 

When not on Gallian but on Roman braves their swords 
they drew? 

While prudent fears commingling thus with thoughts 
upsoaring high 

Yet bravely on he led his host ’neath Italy’s cloudless 
sky, 

Lo ! suddenly above the brightly blazing noonday sun 

A red-illumined cross with golden sheen surrounded 
shone. 


7 * 


70 THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 

Upon the horizontal shaft four lesser crosses gleamed, 

Like crystal pearls together sown in crimson tinged 
they seemed; 

While on the perpendicular beam in letters large and 
gold 

The words : “ In this sign thou wilt conquer !” shone in 
heavenly mould. 

The emperor first eyed the wondrous sign, and thought¬ 
ful gazed, 

Upon his warriors all he called awe-stricken and 
amazed ; 

No heart though steeled in iron war but throbbed with 
strange affright, 

And e’en the war-horses pranced back with terror at 
the sight. 

Awhile thus mute and terror-struck the vision strange 
they eyed, 

When, as if by a seer inspired, the emperor loudly cried: 

“ Lo ! warriors ! this marvellous sign, what else does it 
presage, 

But that ’neath it alone we can victorious battles 
wage ! 

Why still with lifeless gods we strive the enemy to 
o’ercome ? 

What profits it to sacrifice to statues deaf and dumb ? 

Has Jove e’er o’er our dying host swept in his boasted 
power, 

As whilom waved the Christians’ thundering God in 
saving shower ? 


THE VISION OF THE DAY. 


71 


In vain a bloody deluge of three hundred years has 
drenched 

The world-wide Roman land—the Christian flame gleams 
still unquenched. 

Who but insane will yet presume against such power 
to rage, 

And madly with the God-allied his impious warfare 
wage ? 

My valiant father always strove the Christian to de¬ 
fend, 

Nor ever ’mid his court or host he found a truer friend. 

Shall I, his son, who in his foot-prints glory me to 
tread, 

Be stranger to his noble heart, and grieve his slumber¬ 
ing head ? 


Ah, no ! e’en more ! yon brilliant sign, that darts such 
lovely rays, 

The certain victories obtained beneath its sheen por¬ 
trays ! 

Me, happiest, first of Caesar’s heirs, its conquering 
words invite 

To rear it as my standard, and thus crush th’ usurper’s 
might. 

High though upsoar our lofty thoughts, discreetness 
lays them low, 

If aidless else we battle with a twofold mightier foe ; 


12 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE PAGAN. 


So let ns, then, ’gainst eagled hosts, as yon bright words 
ordain, 

’Neath cross-lit ensigns combat, and the victory we 
shall gain !” 

He ceased—and from the lips of all the shouts of joy- 
ance rose, 

They loudly asked beneath the cross the enemy to 
oppose; 

Each strove the first himself and steed to deck with 
the loved sign, 

And brightly waved the pennon new before each war¬ 
rior line. 

Oh happiest day of triumph ! when on Tiber’s corse- 
strewn bank 

The minions of Satan ’neath the Saviour’s standard 
sank. 

From Palatine’s imperial dome the fabled Jove was 
hurled, 

And on its gilded pinnacle the cross-Striped flag un¬ 
furled. 


THE 


CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 

/ 







THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM 


Not less earnestly than those of the first three centuries do 
the Christians in struggle with the fanatic disciples of Mahomet 
deserve our lasting and heartfelt gratitude. To them after 
God we owe not only our religion, but our civilization, our 
learning, and our liberty. In their virtues and chivalrous 
feats more than in any others has the poet found a perennial 
stream for the refreshment of his mind. He there meets with 
the fearless warrior, the dauntless heroine, the mail-clad pre¬ 
late, the praying nun; yet, however different their individual 
sympathies, how contrary soever their national feelings, one 
uniting spirit, the spirit of Christian charity and religious 
zeal, spreads her wings over them all, and makes them breathe 
as though they were but one soul. Particularly in that fair 
land of chivalry, romantic Spain, does the Muse love to linger 
and carol her most delectable strains. The Moslems there, 
already softened and ennobled by their constant communica¬ 
tion with the Christians, assisted to portray in more brilliant 
colors the knightly virtues of their foes, which they themselves 
labored partly to imitate. But their imitation was shallow 
and insincere; their undiverted aim was to spread the undi¬ 
vided dominion of semi-barbarous fanaticism : they, therefore, 
richly deserved their disastrous overthrow; and even now, if 
justice were the standard of the world, should they be driven 
from the luxuriant regions which still they wrongfully possess, 
and be exiled into their original desert homes of Arabia. 



76 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


CARISIUS AND OTELIA. 

If thou survive my well-contented day, 

When that churl, Death, my bones with dust shall cover, 
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey 
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, 

Compare them with the bettering of the time ; 

And though they be outstripped by every pen, 

Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, 

Exceeded by the height of happier men. 

Oh then vouchsafe me but this loving thought! 

“ Had my friend’s Muse grown with this growing age, 

A dearer birth than this his love had brought, 

To march in ranks of better equipage: 

But since he died, and poets better prove, 

Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love.” 

Shakspeare. 

I. 

“ Scarcely sets the bridal evening, and already thou 
wilt go, 

Scarcely cease the nuptial organs, and the battle- 
trumpets blow, 

Scarcely have I known to love thee, when my loving 
heart thou bleed’st, 

Scarcely have I clasped thee to me, when away from me 
thou speed’st!” 

“ Oh, my dear Otelia ! banish from thy mind the sombre 
thought; 

Well thou know’st that higher duty to this sad resolve 
me brought: 


CARISIUS AND OTELIA. 7Y 

That, when calls the holy Pontiff for the rescue of 
Christ’s land, 

I no longer can be tardy, but must join his warrior- 
band. 

Yet let hence thee not be troubled, for, though I awhile 
thee leave, 

Soon the bugle of my coming will thy sorrowing heart 
relieve. 

Then within this beauteous castle shall our loves re¬ 
newed grow, 

And the years of peace and quiet in unended raptures 
flow.” 

Thus upon the lordly castle of the counts of Pandore 

Spent Carisius in sad converse with his spouse the 
bridal day: 

She lamenting o’er her sudden separation from her love, 

He her grief and his consoling with the calling from 
above. 

On that morn within the chapel, at the altar’s sacred 
shrine, 

Had they joined their hands in wedlock, and exchanged 
their vows divine. 

Lovelier pair had never entered through that old an¬ 
cestral door, 

Not a Pandore a lovelier maiden e’er had wooed before. 

As she stood there at the altar in her dress of snowy 
white, 

Round her brow the jeweled crownet sparkling far the 
golden light, 


8 


IS TIIE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 

You would think a heavenly beauty, such as earth 
could never own, 

In the skies ethereal nurtured, to our faded realms 
had flown. 


From her bluey eyes the radiance of the morning’s mild 
star beamed, 

On her rosy lips the sweetness of the spring’s first 
blossom teemed, 

On her cheek the rose and lily bloomed in fragrance 
sweet and fair, 

And adown her neck of ivory fell her locks of chestnut 
hair. 


Scarce she numbered twenty summers, when she left 
her parent-fount, 

That old castle of Saluvo, proudly perched on Alpine 
mount, 

To be wedded to Carisius, youthful heir of Pandore, 

Noble type of manly beauty, lustrous flower of chiv¬ 
alry. 


Now the noonday’s festive banquet had just ended, 
when the bell 

Of the watch-tower rang deeply, and the drawbridge 
heavy fell; 

O’er it sped a knight, whose armor sparkled in the 
golden light, 

With a cross on breast and silken pennon fluttering in 
his right. 


CARISIUS AND OTELIA. 


79 


Quickly leaped he from his courser, stepped into the 
festive hall— 

Where the fair with terror whitened, and suspense o’er- 
clouded all— 

Nobly bowed he to the bridegroom and the maiden at 
his side, 

Then proclaimed his weighty message, and the purport 
of his ride. 

“ On his Son in Christ beloved, on the Count of Pan- 
dore, 

Calls his Holiness the Pontiff, and th’ Imperial Ma¬ 
jesty, 

That as vassal brave and faithful he join in the warrior- 
band 

Yowed to rescue Christ’s sepulchre from the impious 
Arab’s hand.” 

Scarce had passed his lips the message, than athwart 
the deathlike hall 

Rang the spouse’s shriek of anguish, and appalled the 
hearts of all, 

On the breast of her love sank she, in her eyes dread 
and alarm; 

And in fear of losing him around his neck entwined her 
arm. 

But the gallant young Carisius, though with grief nigh 
rent his breast, 

Clasping still his beauteous maiden, thus the courier 
addressed: 


80 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


“ Tell our Lords, that Pandore’s heir with his small but 
valiant band 

Will not fail to join their troopers in the rescue of 
Christ’s land.” 

In outfitting for the campaign horrid warfare’s fierce 
array, 

In adieus and tears and wishes passed the people’s 
after day; 

In persuading and consoling his sad love the youthy 
count 

Spent the hours, until the sun sank low behind the 
pine-topped mount. 

But when spread the shades of evening o’er the castle’s 
highest tower, 

Then up sprang the maiden sudden, as if roused by 
secret power: 

“ My heart’s love, my dear Carisius, list my purpose 
sent divine, 

With thee go I to the combat, cross with thee the- 
enemy’s liue! 

Waste thee not, my love! endeavoring to change my 
fixed mind, 

God himself inspires me with it, and the means he knows 
to find. 

So when dawns the rosy morrow, and the battle-trumpets 
blow, 

At thy side will I ride with thee, at thy side will fight 
the foe.” 


CARISIUS AND OTELIA. 


81 


“Oh my life!” sobbed young Carisius, as he pressed 
her to his heart; 

“Well I know that thine intention love-inspired naught 
can thwart: 

Then, in life and death united, to the combat shall we 
ride, 

And or safe return together or expire there side by 
side.” 

II. 

Brightly through the eastern heavens rode the blood- 
red king of day, 

And upon the Holy City’s towers poured his golden 
ray; 

Where the Saracen stood fiercely waiting for the 
dreaded foe, 

That arrayed beneath the banners of the cross de¬ 
ployed below. 

For awhile athwart the ramparts spread the silent calm 
of death, 

And the boldest of the warriors held in mute suspense 
his breath— 

Till the clarion shrill sounded, and the louder trumpet 
blew, 

And upon the bristling battlements the Christian mis¬ 
siles flew. 

With each throw the murderous catapult a heavier 
fragment rearedj 

With each throw the men-filled tower toward the 
crumbling ramparts neared, 

8 * 


82 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


With each throw the stricken Seljuck tumbled from the 
wall on high, 

With each throw arose the Christian’s victorious battle- 
cry. 

Yet at noon the bloody battle raged, and yet it fiercer 
grew, 

Yet the Mussulman fell heavily, and yet the huge rock 
flew; 

While to thousands stricken on the wall fresh thou¬ 
sands forward sprang, 

And the battle-drum the funeral dirge and fresh as¬ 
saulting rang. 

’Mong the warriors that in the ranks of Godfrey fore¬ 
most stood, 

Whose puissant arm beneath them traced a stream of 
pagan blood, 

Shone superior a youthy pair, who ’mid the murderous 
tide 

Of the rush and maddening conflict fought inseparate 
side by side. 

He at right a brave and handsome youth arrayed in 
warlike sheen, 

She at left a beauteous maid adorned with meek and 
lovely mien; 

For a maiden still her milk-white face and softer blush 
her showed, 

And though love-impelled her sword but feebly wielded 
ruin sowed. 


CARISIUS AND OTELIA. 


83 


Aye, I knew them still! my memory yet thought of 
that loved pair, 

Who in Pandore of late them vowed the woes of war to 
share, 

When united scarce in nuptials sweet they heard the 
shrill horn blow, 

That resounded through the land the wrongs of Christ’s 
barbarian foe. 

Still I thought of young Otelia, the loveliest of all 
maids, 

.How she modestly and fairly bloomed, a lily in the 
glades ; 

How her bosom throbbed with fear and love upon that 
bridal even, 

When she made her vows heroic to her spouse and 
willing heaven. 


Though her beauteous form no longer decked the robe 
of snowy white, 

Though the weary march and sultry air had cast o’er 
her their blight; 

Yet eucased in knightly armor, on her brow the glitter¬ 
ing helm, 

She effulged a lustrous Seraph nurtured in celestial 
realm. 

By her side stood young Carisius, noble heir of Pan¬ 
dore, 

’Mid the knights most valiant and true in Italia’s bright 
array: 


84 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


More majestic now than e’er he seemed, his face di¬ 
vinely glowed, 

From his eyes the rays of bravery and lovely ardor 
flowed. 

’Tween the clarion’s shrill and rampart’s crash and 
warrior’s cheering cry 

Kang the champion’s loved watchword and the maid’s 
responsive sigh, 

As he called on his Otelia not to tremble at his side, 

And the maid : “ How can I fear with thee, Carisius 
dear ?” replied. 


’Neath their strokes united many a brave the slippery 
ground pressed, 

And the smitten cimeter the strength of Alpine steel 
confessed : 

With the mighty arm of Pandore Saluvo’s weaker 
hand 

Smote the infidel, and spread his bed upon the gory 
sand. 


Thus they fought until the flaming orb the sacred third 
hour told; 

When against the bristling rampart Godfrey’s thunder¬ 
ing tower rolled, 

And with lightning speed his fiery braves in thousands 
scaled the wall, 

And the drum no longer muffled beat the Moslem’s 
heaven-struck fall. 


CARISIUS AND OTELIA. 


85 


Then amid the first that o’er the crumbling bulwark 
forward dashed 

Undivided still that gallant pair their blood-stained 
sabres flashed; 

When—lo! whizzed a deadly shaft into the virgin’s 
throbbing heart— 

“Oh—Carisius—my love!” she sighed; “alas! we now 
must part!” 

“ Never,” cried the youth, “ my heart’s love, shall 1 
sever me from thee ! 

My Otelia as in life thou wast, in death thou eke shalt 
be!” 

To his breast he pressed her with his left, he kissed her 
death-pale lips, 

With his valiant right he burnished off the arrowy 
eclipse. 

Thus awhile he stood against the foe that nearer on 
him pressed, 

Till a partner-arrow of the first oped als his noble 
breast: 

Slow he dropped the sword, his right about his spouse’s 
neck he wound; 

With their heart’s blood mingled, arm in arm, they sank 
upon the ground. 

Not till flushed with joyous victory the cross the cres¬ 
cent fought, 

Should they meet the death, the loved one, united 
which they sought; 


86 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


Not till trod their feet the sacred soil, where God re¬ 
deeming bled, 

Should the whizzing shaft their loving hearts in bleed¬ 
ing nuptials wed. 

In the city drenched with God-Man’s gore, in martyr- 
tomb enshrined, 

With their breasts transfixed, in death’s embrace, the 
lovers lie entwined: 

Still in death the love, which made in life their hearts 
one, they proclaim, 

And adorn the monument of Christian love’s undying 
fame. 


HH- 


GODFREY DE BOUILLON. 

Oh pietas ! oh prisca tides ! invictaque hello 
Dextera! non illi se quisquam impune tulisset 
Obvius arinato, seu quum pedes iret in hostern, 

Seu spumantis equi foderet calcaribus armos.— Virgil. 

Through the ranks of Christian warriors 
Lying ’neath strong Antioch’s tow’rs 
Anxiously rode a chieftain 
In the morning’s breezy hours. 

High and sturdy was his stature, 

Powerful his sinewy frame, 

Death presaged to aught that quivered 
’Neath his arm’s unerring aim. 



GODFREY DE BOUILLON. 


87 


Bright his flaxen locks the helmet 
With the cross emblazoned pressed, 
And the leader’s cross, the golden, 
Glittered on his mail-clad breast. 

By his left a sheen Damaskin 

Wrenched from Islam’s monarch hung:. 
In his right a huge spear steel-tipped 
Like a slender reed he swung. 

Proudly with hie noble rider 
Pranced along the warlike steed, 
Snuffed with glee the breeze of morning, 
Restless pawed the dewy mead. 

Brave and fearless though the warrior, 
Yet beneath his iron dress 
Beat a heart with gentle pity, 

And his eye gleamed tenderness. 

As he passed atween his legions, 
Thousand joyous faces shone, 

And a thousand lips low whispered: 

“ Lo! the brave, good Bouillon!” 

On each soldier looked he sweetly, 

Spoke to each a kindly word, 

That the sturdy braves eyed joyly 
A dear brother in their lord. 

By the w r ounded and the dying 
Knelt he down upon the ground, 

Him caressed, and with the balsam 
Poured his tears into his wound. 


88 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


Shall I tell, oh valiant Godfrey! 

How thou slew’st the great Emeer, 
Who careering from the city 
Like Goliah spread his fear ? 

Shall I tell, oh dauntless Godfrey! 

How thou seiz’dst the mountain boar. 
Like Ulysses, and thy cim’ter 

Buriedst in his heart’s black gore? 

Shall I tell, oh heaven-blessed Godfrey! 

How o’er Sion’s holy tower 
Thou beheld’st angelic warriors 
Aid thee with celestial power? 

No! thy warlike prowess dwindles 
’Neath thy piety’s fair sheen; 

Dimmed thy eye flushed with brave ardor 
Glimmers in thy tender mien. 

Whom but love of blood and plunder 
To the horrid combat speeds, 

Whose base souls aught scarcely differ 
From their carnage-nurtured steeds: 

Them let senseless, minion prattlers 
E’er as slaughter’s champions hail; 

All the good and noble ever 

Shall them curse as earth’s worst bale. 

Thou, unequalled great Bouillon ! 

Stand’st the first in virtue’s van; 

On thy brow blooms e’er truth’s laurel, 
Greatest warrior, kindest man ! 


ROBERT AND LUCIA. 


89 


ROBERT AND LUCIA. 


Sehnend breit’ ich meine Arme 
Nach dcm theuren Schattenbild, 

Ach, ich kann es nickt erreichen, 

Und das Herz bleibt ungestillt!—S chiller. 

Count Robert was a gallant youth, 
Bologna’s love and pride: 

In battle and in tournament 
All warriors he outvied; 

He was so kind, he was so good, 

Like father to the poor; 

To every sufferer and distressed 
Lay ope his castle-door. 

One morn, ah, what a hapless morn ! 

All guileless, unaware, 

He went into the convent-church 
To breathe his morning pray’r: 

That spot, where Christ-espoused maids 
In sweet seclusion dwelt, 

Shut from the world, its poisoned joys 
Unfeeling and unfelt. 

Now from their lone and gloomy cells, 

In pensive long array, 

Across the choir the paly nuns 
Went to their desks to pray. 

9 


90 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


One in their midst more young and fair. 

In mien more noble, came, 

Known to the world for former wealth, 
And Lucia was her name. 

The young count saw her pass before, 
And suddenly his heart 

Burned with unwonted fires, transfixed 
With love’s wild torturing dart. 

He gazed and gazed, and deeper still 
The soft attachment grew, 

And nearer to the charmful maid 
His loving soul him drew. 

Morn after morn, when scarce the door 
Oped, was he kneeling there; 

To pray he came not, it was but 
To gaze upon his fair. 

The pious maid at last him eyed, 

And instantly concealed 

Her from his look, nor ever more 
Her beauteous face revealed. 

Count Robert saw his slighted love, 

Deep sorrow filled his breast; 

But eft he seized a strange resolve, 

And thus his God addressed: 

“Oh, Lord ! while earthly love me slights, 
Thine will I seek above ; 

Will on the plains of Palestine 
Prove with the sword my love !” 


ROBERT AND LUCIA. 


91 


He went, and on Judea’s plains 
Maintained his warrior fame : 

Through Christian and through Moslem ranks 
Careered his valiant name. 

On Salem’s turban-crowded walls 
Among the first he sprang; 

On Ascalon’s wide field of gore 
Bright triumph first he rang. 

But, ah! the worthier the prize, 

More greedily ’tis sought; 

Where bravery outshines the foe, 

Insidious schemes are wrought. 

One day, while through a dark defile 
All lone he careless wound, 

A hundred turbans rushed on him, 

And helplessly him bound. 

Stretched on the dread rack for his faith, 

And writhing ’neath the pain: 

“ Oh, holy virgin !” he excfaimed ; 

“Chaste Lucia, without stain ! 

If still thou livest, pray for him 
Who loved so deeply thee; 

But if in heaven thou reignest, turn 
God’s pitying eye on me !” 

He prayed; anon athwart his limbs 
Sweet slumber softly crept; 

No more he felt the racking pain, 
Unconsciously he slept; 


92 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


Eftsoons he waked, and lo ! the chains 
Just worn lay by his side, 

And glittering in the sun’s bright rays 
The convent’s towers he eyed. 

See there ! his love in heavenly sheen 
Before him wondering gleamed. 

“Oh, liv’st thou still, my Lucia!” 

He cried, and thought he dreamed. 

“Ah, well I live,” the maid replied, 

“ But in the realms above; 

Go now, and on my grave thy chains 
Place, as a gift of love!” 

She said, and through the liquid skies 
Soared like a sunny ray; 

He rising hastened to the spot 
Where her fair body lay. 

His chains he dropped, a thankful gift, 
Upon her green-turfed grave; 

But more than this, a lovelier boon, 
His life he there her gave. 


BATTLE OF LUCENA. 


93 


BATTLE OF LUCENA. 

Santiago y cierra Espana! 

La illah ill’ Allah, Mohammed Resoul Allah! 

War-Cries of the Spaniards and Moslems. 

“ Santiago ! Santiago!” 

Count de Cabra joyous cried ; 

“ Santiago ! Santiago !” 

Gay his Spaniards replied. 

“ Allah Achbar ! Allah Achbar !” 

Ali Atar fiercely cried; 

“ Allah Achbar ! Allah Achbar !” 

Fierce his Mussulmans replied. 

As the torrent from the mountain 
Down into the valley sweeps, 

As the lion from the thicket 
On the grazing roebuck leaps; 

Andalusia’s gallant army 
Down into the vega swept, 

Count de Cabra down careering 
On the king Abdallah leaped. 

“ Take my arms !” the timid-hearted 
El Zogoybi faintly cried ; 

And with stringent cords and fetters 
His soft, trembling hands were tied. 

9 * 


94 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


But the fierce old Ali Atar 

Shot a death-glance at the king, 

And anew the Moslem war-cry 
Made athwart the vega ring. 

Fiercely raged the bloody battle, 

Rang the shout and dying scream, 

Reddened dripped the grassy valley, 
Crimson rolled the ruffled stream. 

Hand to hand the warriors battled, 

On the slippery ground sank, 

Rolling from the steep embankment 
Xenel’s blood-tinged waters drank. 

O’er the din of clanking armor 
Ali Atar’s cry arose, 

Madly urging on his warriors, 

Dealing right and left his blows. 

Stung with mingled wrath and envy 
Don Alonzo he beheld; 

How his doughtiest braves he slaughtered, 
And alone his host repelled. 

For with holy indignation 

Burned the Andalusian brave : 

Still he thought of dire Malaga, 
Andalusia’s horrid grave. 

Fired with rage the panting Moslem 
Toward the Christian spurred his steed, 

Pranced askant, and at the warrior 
Hurled his iron-pointed reed. 


BATTLE OF LTJCENA. 


95 


Aimed in wrath the reeking weapon 
But the chieftain’s corselet speared; 

Foiled the Moor his trenchant scym’tar 
Drew, and toward the knight careered. 

But the wary Don Alonzo 
Met the deadly vaunted blow, 

And returned each idle sword-stroke 
With a deep wound on his foe. 

Now they fought upon their war-steeds, 
Then unto the ground they sank; 

Now they grappled in the waters, 

Then they battled up the bank. 

Spread with wounds old Ali Atar 
Dropped exhausted on the sand ; 

Don Alonzo eyed him pitying, 

And held out his warrior-hand: 

“Come, and give thyself a captive; 

All thy braves lie dead around !” 

“ Never !” cried the furious Moslem ; 

“ Never to a Christian hound !” 

Scarce the impious defiance 
From his haughty lips had fled, 

When the sword of Don Alonzo 
Clove in twain his turbaned head. 

Not a groan from his tongue quivering 
Wrung the horrid deadly wound ; 

’Neath the Xenel rolled his body, 

Ne’er the Mussulman it found. 


96 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


O’er the scattered Moorish squadrons 
Clouds of hopeless terror grew— 
Spoiled of leader to the mountains 
In despair and fear they flew. 

“ Santiago ! Santiago !” 

Still the Spaniards joyous cried ; 
But no Moslem in the vega: 

“Allah Achbar!” fierce replied. 


+o 


THE WOFUL NEWS. 

What messenger of speed 
Spurs hitherward his panting steed?— Scott. 

’Twas eve, and from the lofty towers of Loxa longing 
eyed 

The sentinels the vega watered by the Xenel’s tide: 

Each glowed the first their valiant host triumphant to 
descry, 

Each longed the first their warlike captain’s pennon 
proud to eye. 

As eagerly their anxious eyes thus wander o’er the 
vale, 

And warmly throb their warrior breasts the coming 
host to hail, 




THE WOFUL NEWS. 


97 


Lo! in the hazy distance Algeringo’s crags around 

They see a horseman toward them gallop o’er the dusty 
ground. 

No road he recks or path, but thwart the vega dashes 
straight, 

Nor reins his panting courser till he grasps the city- 
gate. 

Down sinks the noble steed with foam and dust and 
blood o’erspread, 

Once more his master praying eyes, once more gasps, 
and is dead. 

Round Cidi Caleb, nephew of th’ Albaycin’s alfaqui, 

(For such the rich-clad courier was,) all throng them 
eagerly: 

“How fares it with the army?” Sad he points the 
Christian land : 

“ There lie they! Heaven has struck them ! All press 
dead the gory sand !” 

As when the clear blue heavens sudden thunder-clouds 
o’ercast, 

Deep roaring through the shivered trees sweeps on the 
furious blast, 

The sulphurous lightning thundering cuts the meadow- 
oak in twain, 

Aud headlong bound the frightened herd low bellowing 
o’er the plain: 

Thus falls on Loxa’s listening ears the courier’s wild 
cry; 

Men, women, maidens, children rend with wails the 
moaning sky. 


98 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


No heart but wildly beats amid that sorrow-stricken 
throng, 

For none but owns a kindred heart the many slain 
among. 

“But where is Ali Atar?” asks a Moslem veteran 
brave; 

“ If he still lives, his valiant sword his army yet will 
save!” 

“ I saw his helm cleft by the Christian steel; his body 
lies 

Beneath the Xenel’s waters !” sad the courier replies. 


The soldier smites his breast, his hoary head with dust 
bestrews. 

The herald mounts another steed to spread the woful 
news. 

From every hamlet by the way the people anxious 
stare, 

From every lip along the road wild moanings rend the 
air. 


With panting steed at last the courier gains Granada’s 
walls; 

At once around him press the crowds frojn huts and 
princely halls : 

Each thinks but of his loved share among the thousand 
slain, 

Each asks but for his kindred dear stretched lifeless on 
the plain. 


THE WOFUL NEWS. 


99 


The son asks for his father;—“While he bravely fought 
beside 

The king, a lance drove through his shield and pierced 
his valiant side.” 

The brother for his brother asks;—“ I saw with ghastly 
wound 

Thy brother ’neath his courser lie upon the blood- 
drenched ground.” 


The maiden for her lover asks;—“I saw thy lover’s 
steed 

Without a rider, drenched in blood, bound o’er the 
corse-strewn mead.” 

The mother for her son asks;—“Bravely fought he by 
my side, 

When on us rushed the foe, and he sank ’neath the 
crimson tide.” 


Up the Alhambra’s green-clad lane his courser Cidi 
sped, 

Lowly he bowed unto the queens, and sadly thus he 
said: 

“Wo me! whom Allah calls upon such doleful news to 
bring; 

Dead on the field lie Ali Atar and Granada’s king.” 


As when o’er the Caribbean sea sweeps fierce the hurri¬ 
cane, 

The billows heaves to mountains, and with wrecks o’er- 
strews the main, 


100 TITE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 

The captain and his sailors battle bravely with the 
storm, 

But wildly shriek the passengers o’erpowered with 
alarm : 


So on these noble princesses the courier’s tidings fall, 
The breasts of both with sorrow heave, with horror 
both appall; 

Yet though the aged Ayxa stunned with grief the 

heavens eyes, 

No tears roll down her cheeks,' but “ it is Allah’s will ” 
she sighs. 


But vainly does her high-bred soul Morayma’s tender 
grief 

Strive to rebuke, and ease her with the stoic’s cold 
relief; 

For days and nights she tearful gazes from her mirador 

The Xenel reddened with her father’s and her husband’s 
gore. 


“Alas! my father!” she exclaims; “the river runs 
above 

Thy mangled corse, and coldly taunts my sorrow- 
stricken love! 

Oh! could I but thy body rescue from the chilling 
wave, 

And ’neath thy proud ancestral walls thee delve a 
worthy grave! 


THE WOFUL NEWS. 


101 


4 


And thou, Abdallah! oh, my dearest love ! light of my 
eyes, 

Joy of my heart, life without whom thy spouse each 
moment dies ! 

Wo to the hour, when last I pressed thee to me in these 
halls, 

When last I saw thee proudly bound from out Gran¬ 
ada’s walls! 

Deserted lies the road whereon thy fiery war-horse 
pranced; 

Ne’er shall it with the homeward royal rider be en¬ 
tranced ! 

The mountain, whence thy glittering host into the vega 
spread, 

Lies wrapt in clouds—beyond it all is dark and lone 
and dead!” 

Thus wailed Morayma tenderly in wild and doleful 
strain; 

In vain the high-souled Ayxa strove her sorrow to re¬ 
strain : 

She called the royal bard with joyous songs her to 
regale; 

He struck his merriest notes—but soon they changed 
to pensive wail. 


10 


102 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


THE MOSLEM MINSTREL’S LAMENTATION. 

Quelle main en un jour t’a ravi tous tes charmes ? 
Qui changera mes yeux en deux sources de larmes 
Pour pleurer ton malheur?— Racine. 

Oh, whither is thy glory fled ? 

The lustre which thy beauty shed ? 
Gloomy look thy lofty walls, 

Lonely sound thy marble halls ! 

Beautiful Granada! 

The flower of thy princely band 
Low wither in the stranger’s land. 

Thy sweet maidens look in vain 
For their lovers o’er the plain. 

Beautiful Granada! 

No more the Vivarrambla bounds 
The mettled steed, the trumpet sounds: 
Throng thy youth in bright array 
For the tilt and the foray. 

Beautiful Granada! 

No longer in thy moonlit streets 
The lute’s soft note the sleepless greets; 
No more lists the wakeful maid 
The loved minstrel’s serenade. 

Beautiful Granada! 


THE MOSLEM MINSTREL’S LAMENTATION. 103 


No longer in the sultry hours 
The Zambra’s dance frisks ’neath thy bow’rs; 
Thy green hills no more rebound 
With the castanet’s brisk sound. 

Beautiful Granada! 

Why the Alhambra looks so lorn ? 

Its ruddy towers dim and worn ? 

Still the nightingale him wings 
Through its groves and sweetly sings. 
Beautiful Granada! 

The orange and the myrtle still 
Its silken halls with fragrance fill; 

Still its sunlit marble gleams 
In the plash of crystal streams. 

Beautiful Granada! 

Why, then, ah! why so lonely stare 
Those charmful halls with mute despair ? 
Why on every clouded face 
Deadly sorrow must I trace ? 

Beautiful Granada! 

Alas ! alas ! no more the sheen 
Young king within those halls is seen ! 

Set forever is the light 
Of Alhambra’s lustrous sight! 

Beautiful Granada! 


104 THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


ALI ABEN FAHAR, THE LOYAL MOOR. 


So much I challenge that I may profess 
Due to the Moor.— Shaicspeare. 

Surrounded by Spain’s chivalry, 

In regal pomp and state, 

The wary king and gracious queen 
Sat on their thrones elate. 

Before them stood the conquered chiefs 
Of Alpuxarra’s leaguered towns, 

Their verdant dales and mountain homes 
Forever to renounce. 

Apart of them a brave alcayde, 

In bloody wars grown old, 

Stood silently and pensively, 

And coldly eyed the gold 
Which ever and anon the king 
Spent with a willing, lavish hand 
Upon the downcast Moslem chiefs 
For Andalusia’s land. 

“Now, Ali Aben Fahar !” then 
The monarch gently said; 

“What proferred gift or low request 
Has hitherward thee led?” 


ALI ABEN FAHAR, THE LOYAL MOOR. 105 


Athwart the Moor’s dejected face 
Settled a more despairing cloud. 

Yet firm and noble he stepped forth, 

And frankly spake aloud : 

“lama Moor ; my ancestors 
Were all of Moorish blood : 

Beneath the Prophet’s battle-flag 
They ever bravely stood. 

To me, alas ! ’twas giv’n to save 
Purchena’s and Paterna’s walls 

Of rock with their luxuriant dales 
From conquering foemen’s thralls. 

Long have I struggled to maintain 
My trust against the foe ; 

But now around me all my men 
Lie spiritless and low. 

These places, hence, most potent king, 

Are part of thy wide-spread estates : 

Whene’er thou will’st, thy conquering host 
Can proud march through the gates !” 

He said, and down his furrowed cheeks 
Big tears of sorrow rolled. 

The gainful king with fluttering heart 
Called for the glittering gold. 

“ Take this,” said he, “ in lieu of what 
Thou vainly soughtest to maintain !” 

But Ali Aben Fahar viewed 
The gold with stern disdain. 

10 * 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 

“I came not hither,” he replied, 

“ To sell what is not mine ; 

I only give to thee what fate 
Has happily made thine. 

And had my former gallant braves 
Now valiantly stood by my side, 

Our mangled bodies on our walls 
Thy warriors should have eyed !” 

The monarchs listened with delight 
The loyal Moslem’s strain, 

And strove him as a vassal to 
Their Christian crowns to gain. 

But coldly fell their soothing words 
Upon his Islamitic heart; 

And nothing could induce him from 
His native creed to part. 

“But is there naught, then,” quoth the queen 
Mild, affable and kind, 

“ That can thee prove our gracious will, 

And soothe thy downcast mind?” 

“Yea,” said the Moor; “ within the towns 
And dales of Alpuxarra’s chain 

Still linger many families 
Desirous to remain. 

Give then, I pray, your royal word, 

That unmolested they 

In practice of their ancient rites 
May in their homesteads stay!” 


ALI ABEN FAIIAR, THE LOYAL MOOR. 107 


“We promise it,” the queen replied ; 

“ In peace and in security 
They e’er shall dwell—but for thyself, 
What askest thou for thee ?” 

“Naught else,” rejoined the brave alcayde, 
“ The Prophet’s son implores, 

But with his horses and his goods 
To pass to Afric’s shores !” 

. With regal gifts their noble sense 

The monarchs fain had gladly shown ; 
The Moor refused each gift as from 
His country’s ruin grown. 

He gathered up his little store, 
Caparisoned his steeds, 

And hurried with his servant-train 
Thwart Andalusia’s meads. 

Long trains of mourning Mussulmans 
Him followed to the sea-beat shore, 

And tearful took their last farewell 
Of Islam’s loyal Moor. 


108 THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


THE VIRGIN’S COMBAT. 

That bright name by Garcilasso’s might 
On the Green Vega won in single fight! 

Felicia Hemans. 

Before Granada's bristling walls, arrayed in glittering 
steel, 

Careered on prancing battle-steeds the champions of 
Castile. 

Behind their rampart line on Zubia’s steepy mountain 
side 

The king and queen in royal sheen the sieged city 
eyed. 

Cold was the king, austere and brief; his wary eye 
surveyed 

With crafty joy the dazzling wealth his captive town 
displayed. 

Fair was the queen, ah! lovelier lady never graced the 
throne; 

Her beauteous face with tender love and pious ardor 
shone. 

Arrayed in gorgeous splendor thronged about the royal 
pair 

The grandees of the state, with courteous youths and 
damsels fair. 


109 


THE VIRGIN’S COMBAT. 

The lowly friar also mingled in the stately throng, 

The queen and ladies to refresh with prayer and pious 
song. 

With rapture glowed his florid face, as now his glisten¬ 
ing eyes 

He rested on the gilded mosques eftsoons to be his 
prize. 

Anon his prayers rose, his trilling notes swept through 
the air: 

The king stood awed, the queen wept joy, with piety 
throbbed the fair. 

But,hark! a barbarous shout—and lo! from Albaycin’s 
gate 

A Moorish horseman prances forth proud, daring and 
elate. 

Before his broad and swelling breast the ponderous 
shield he swayed, 

His brawny arm waved high in air the Damascenean 
blade. 

His proud device, which insolently he displayed be¬ 
fore, 

Him pointed out as Tarfe—the most vaunting, daunt¬ 
less Moor. 

The same, who in the Spanish camp the royal tents 
between 

Had madly hurled his steel-tipped lance “ intended for 
the queen.” 


110 THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


Now haughtily he eyed the foe his brawny strength 
aware; 

His mettled war-steed pawed the ground, and snuffed 
the morning air. 

But, oh! what horror filled the breasts, what deep and 
trenchant wound 

Nigh bled the hearts of Spain’s brave knights! when, 
trailing on the ground 

Through dust and filth, unto the wildly bounding war- 
horse tied 

A paper with the words “Ave Maria” they descried. 

That paper Hernan Pulgar, called the brave adventur¬ 
ous knight, 

Had fastened to Granada’s chief mosque in the dead of 
night. 

The brave knight was not there his injured trophy to 
regain; 

But in his stead a valiant youth sprang fearless to the 
plain. 

In haste he mounted on his steed, the royal sovereigns 
sought, 

And prayed t’ avenge the outrage on our blessed Lady 
wrought. 

The sovereigns could not brook his pious ardor to re¬ 
frain, 

And Garcilasso sped anew down to the martial plain. 


THE VIRGIN’S COMBAT. 


Ill 


As old Goliah once the puny David scorning eyed; 

So Tarfe now the youthful De la Yega loud decried. 

“Come, beardless youth!” he laughing roared; “I’ll 
teach thee how to fight: 

My Damaskin soon shall thee show the Prophet’s 
matchless might!” 

“ Boast not, thou swarthy infidel! of thy accursed 
power; 

My Lady, in whose cause I fight, my weakness shall 
empower!” 

They said, and reining up their steeds, met with terrific 
sound; 

Their lances shivering from the shields with splinters 
strewed the ground. 

The tender Garcilasso nigh was lifted in the air, 

His reinless war-horse scoured the field with terror- 
stricken glare. 

Anon the reins he grasped, and urged his charger on 
the foe; 

Both drew their swords, and meditated the avenging 
blow. 

The brawny Moor his Damaskin flashed with herculean 
sway, 

With dextrous steed he swooped his foeman like a 
hawk his prey. 

The supple Leonese wound like a serpent o’er the field, 

With matchless quickness met each stroke upon his 
Flemish shield. 


112 TIIE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


From gaping wounds of either warrior sped the spout¬ 
ing gore; 

The feeble Spaniard faintly coped with the gigantic 
Moor. 

With fury sparkled Tarfe’s eye, his brawny arms he 
wound 

About the drooping youth, and—both fell to the gory 
ground. 

His knee the haughty Moslem placed on Garcilasso’s 
breast, 

Maliciously his victim eyed, and taunting him ad¬ 
dressed : 

“Now die, thou Christian dog!”—his Barbary dagger 
fierce he thrust— 

Loud shrieked the Spaniards—lo ! the Moor rolled life¬ 
less in the dust. 

While fiercely he his weapon swayed, and impiously 
roared, 

The gallant youth had plunged into his heart the 
shortened sword. 

Up sprang the conqueror, and eft seized on the loved 
prize, 

High waved it on his reeking sword, ’mid Spain’s en¬ 
raptured cries. 

All thankful sank upon their knees, and ’tween the 
courtly train 

The pious padre solemnly sang the Ambrosian strain. 


FALL OF SZIGETH. 


11 


FALL OF SZIGETH. 

Yet though destruction sweep these lovely plains, 

Rise, fellow-men, our country yet remains! 

By that dread name we wave the sword on high, 

And swear for her to live—with her to die! 

Campbell. 

“How long shall this contemptuous chimney burn ? 
From famished few my well-fed thousands turn ? 
When shall the trumpet great of victory play? 
What do my Janizaries? Where are they?” 
Suleiman raged—lo ! on his gilded bed, 

Divinely struck, the Christian’s foe sank dead : 

Not giv’n to rest his ruin-loving eyes 
On Szigeth’s flames blood-dyeing far the skies; 

Not giv’n to list the pleasure-bringing sound 
Of Szigeth’s walls low crumbling to the ground ; 
Where brave Zeriny with his gallant few 
Long scorned the rage of all the Moslem crew. 

For days and nights the terror-booming showers 
Fell crashing on the rent and tumbling towers. 

For nights and days the never silent gun 
The heavens wrapt in glare and darkness dun. 

Yet on each shivered stone the warrior’s feet 
A living rampart sprang the foe to meet; 

Yet at each shattered gate the host before 
Up rose a mail-clad, slaughter-spreading door 

11 


114 THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


Awhile the foe drooped ’neath the threatening gloom, 
And Szigeth seemed the Moslem’s heaven-made tomb. 

But where can valor swayed by fewy hands 
Long war with number’s ceaseless pouring bands ! 
Suleiman’s mighty soul of war had fled, 

But Selim equal trod the pathway red. 

And still before small Szigeth’s shattered walls 
Careered a host obedient to his calls. 

The sire’s pale corse, the victim of his rage, 

Called loud the son his manes to assuage, 

And fiercer wars against the town to wage. 

High on the wall the brave Zeriny stood, 

His sword yet dripping with the foemen’s blood. 

He sees the storm fierce gathering below, 

With wilder wrath the hostile legions glow, 

Their countless sabres glittering o’er the plain, 

While but two hundred of his own remain. 

In vain can now sweet hope her visions lend, 

From Islam’s hordes his country to defend. 

Yet shall he live, and tearlessly behold 
His loved town become the Moslem’s hold ? 

That town, for which he pledged his knightly word, 
Should ne’er be ta’en, while still he held the sword 
His emperor, good Ferdinand, him gave ; 

Sign of the knight most gallant, good and brave. 

Shall quiet rest his Christian-wedded arm, 

While fiercely rings fanaticism’s alarm ? 

And shall his head sink gently to repose, 

When on all sides destruction’s horror glows ? 


FALL OF SZIGETH. 


115 


“ No ! God forbid ! while still my sword I wield, 
Not living, dying only will I yield I” 

Thus cried the chief, and throwing to the ground 
His armor red from many a Turkish wound, 

He decked himself in choicest knight’s array, 

As if with joy to meet the bloody fray. 

The polished greaves his manly legs inclose, 

The flamy cuirass on his bosom glows; 

High o’er his brow the helmet shoots its rays, 

Its colored plumage on his shoulders plays ; 

His left arm sways the huge and ponderous shield, 
Whose silvery orb reflects the battle-field. 

Thus like Pelides for the war arrayed 
Hungaria’s chief then grasped his trusty blade ; 

His scattered warriors summoned to his side, 
Showed them the fortress-keys, and loudly cried : 

“ Lo ! Magyara’s sons ! your country’s keys ! 

By God 1 swear! no Moslem shall them seize 
From this my bosom where I now them hide, 

But with my heart’s blood first they shall be dyed ! 
Not, while my arm this trusty sword can sway,— 
The glorious badge of my first valorous day,— 

Shall my loved trust into the foe’s hands fall, 

And Islam’s crescent gleam on Szigetli’s wall! 

So help me thou, whom on thy judgment-seat, 

The patriot’s solacement, I soon shall meet!” 

He said; two hundred tongues with loud acclaim 
Echoed his words sealed with their country’s fame. 


THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


Out of the gates, quick bolted on their rear, 

In one close column toward the foe they near. 
As when the lordly lion in his den 
Lies circled by the spears of hundred men, 
Retreat he scorns, defence he sees is vain ; 

Yet coward death his soul spurns with disdain. 
Before his fearless cubs and dauntless mate 
He plants himself in valor’s fiercest state ; 

Then roaring loud his horrid mane he rears, 
And madly rushes on the wood of spears. 

Death soon lays cold his and his family’s soul, 
But not till heaps of slain beneath them roll. 
Thus on the myriad-numbered Turkish foe 
Hungaria’s warriors them fiercely throw. 

Each on a towering pile of turbaned slain 
Breathes out his soul unknown to agony’s pain. 
Their valorous chief, e’er in the glorious van, 
Heap after heap uptowers the lifeless clan. 

Till, last of all, high on the gory dead, 

An arrow pierces through his noble head; 

And swiftly, as if for the death-stroke prest, 
Two whizzing balls transfix his fearless breast. 
Down sinks the hero, with his treasure dyed, 

As well presaged, in his heart’s crimson tide.— 
Oh that a bard in sweeter numbers tell, 

How Magyara’s bravest warrior fell I 


BATTLE OF LEPANTO. 


m 


BATTLE OF LEPANTO. 


Vouch it ye 

Immortal waves that saw Lepanto’s fight! 

Thou art a name no time nor tyranny can blight. 

Byron. 


I. 

Stillness o’er the bluey wave 
Spread her pale and deadly hand, 
When the captains loudly gave 
To their crews the stern command; 
And the Turk in crescent form 
To the combat wildly ran, 

And the Christian like a storm 
Slow and dreadful moved his van. 

II. 

“ Yet while near we to the foe 
Let us fall upon our knee, 

That through us from slavery’s woe 
Our far brethren God may free !” 
Said Don Juan, and they fell 

On their knees and prayed and sang, 
While the Saracen’s fierce yell 
O’er the ocean wildly rang. * 

11 * 


118 THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


III. 

“ Now us God speed and the Maid !” 

Loud the Christian captain cried ; 

“ Great Mahomet his sons aid !” 

Fierce the Mussulman replied : 

When their mouths of deadly doom 
Thousand cannon thundering oped, 
And awhile in dreadful gloom 

Thwart the deep the war-ships groped. 

IV. 

But each other flash the scene 
Opened with its meteor glare, 

And the narrowing space between 
Lighted up with flaming air. 

Fiercer raged the bloody war 
As the vessels nearer drew, 

And the cannon of afar 

Their thick volleys nearer blew. 

V. 

Lion-like the Christian brave 
On the foeman’s galley sprang, 

And athwart the crimsoned wave 
Wild the cry of victory rang, 

When the Mother of sweet love 
In her godly arms appeared, 

And the tempests from above 
Toward the Turkish squadrons steered. 


BATTLE OF LEPANTO 


119 


YI. 

Then Don Juan from his boat 
On proud Hali’s galley leaped, 

Him the cruel deadly smote, 

And beneath the billow swept; 
Whence the moanful cry of grief 
O’er the distant ocean knelled, 

And bereft of valiant chief 

Wide the heaps of slaughtered swelled. 

VII. 

From the ships the war-clouds dun 
Slowly westward rolled away, 

And the mild October sun 

Lit the scene with crimson ray ; 

Where the Saracen or killed 
Sank into his ocean grave, 

Or with fear and terror filled 
Fled disordered o’er the wave. 

Yin. 

Rome, Spain, Venice ! now the cry 
Of unbounded joyance raise, 

And your Mother Queen on high 
From your lit-up towers praise : 

Who, while o’er the struggling waves 
She the conquering tempest hurled, 
O’er the squadrons of your braves 
Triumph’s streaming flag unfurled ! 


120 THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOSLEM. 


IX. 

Send your sons and daughters fair 
To the Pontiff’s thankful throng, 
That they trill the listening air 

With their sweetest, heart-felt song ! 
Mingled with affection’s tear 

That of love gleam in your eyes ; 
And the Christian’s Help endear 
On the earth and o’er the skies! 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


( 121 ) 










PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES 


The following graphic account from the pen of America’s 
historian will, I hope, explain the motives which impelled me 
to linger so fondly in these poems on the adventures of the 
chivalrous Spaniards. He says: 

“ Extraordinary success had kindled in the Spanish nation 
an equally extraordinary enthusiasm. No sooner had the 
New World revealed itself to their enterprise, than the valiant 
men, who had won laurels under Ferdinand among the mount¬ 
ains of Andalusia, sought a new career of glory in more re¬ 
mote adventures.America was the region of romance, 

where the heated imagination could indulge in the boldest de¬ 
lusions; where the simple natives ignorantly wore the most 
precious ornaments; and, by the side of the clear runs of 
water, the sands sparkled with gold. What way soever, says 
the historian of the ocean, the Spaniards are called, with a 
beck only, or a whispering voice, to anything rising above 
water, they speedily pjrepare themselves to fly, and forsake 
certainties under the hope of more brilliant success. To carve 
out provinces with the sword; to divide the wealth of empires; 
to plunder the accumulated treasures of some ancient Indian 
dynasty; to return from a roving expedition with a crowd of 
enslaved captives and a profusion of spoils,—soon became the 
ordinary dreams, in which the excited minds of the Spaniards 
delighted to indulge. Ease, fortune, life, all were squandered 
in the pursuit of a game, where, if the issue was uncertain, suc- 

( 123 ) 






124 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


cess was sometimes obtained greater than the boldest imagin¬ 
ation had dared to anticipate. Is it strange that these ad¬ 
venturers were often superstitious? The New World and its 
wealth were in themselves so wonderful, that why should 
credit be withheld from the wildest fictions? Why should not 
the hope be indulged, that the laws of nature themselves 
would yield to the desires of men so fortunate and so brave ?” 
— Bancroft's History of the United States, vol. i. pp. 30, 31. 

As much and perhaps more reason had I to commemorate 
the virtues of those saintly sons of Loyola, of whom the same 
author writes: 

“Every tradition bears testimony to their worth. The hor¬ 
rors of a Canadian life in the wilderness were resisted by an 
invincible passive courage, and a deep internal tranquillity. 
Away from the amenities of life, away from the opportunities 
of vain-glory, they became dead to the world, and possessed 
their souls in unalterable peace. The few who lived to grow 
old, though bowed by the toils of a long mission, still kindled 
with the fervor of apostolic zeal. The history of their labors 
is connected with the origin of every celebrated town in the 
annals of French America; not a cape was turned, nor a river 
entered, but a Jesuit led the way.”—Vol. iii. p. 122. 


LANDING OF COLUMBUS. 


125 


LANDING OF COLUMBUS. 


Ce pays semble avoir conserve les delices ele l’age d’or. Les hivers y 
sont tildes, et les rigoureux aquilons n*y soufflent jamais. L’ardeur de 
Fete y est toiyours temperee par des zephirs rafraichissants qui viennent 

adoncir l’air vers le milieu du jour. Les habitants furent etonnes 

quand ils virent venir au travers des ondes de la mer des homines Gran¬ 
gers qui venaient de si loin; ils nous regurent chez eux avec bonte, et 
nous firent part de tout ce qu’ils avaient, sans vouloir de nous aucun 
paiement.—F enelon. 


Brightly gleamed the rosy morning 
In the mild October sky, 

When the island air resounded 
With the Spaniards’ joyous cry. 

Seventy days and eight the billows 
Of unknown and pathless seas 

Had they furrowed, lashed and driven 
By the tempest and the breeze. 

Every eve the “ Maris Stella” 

Had they wafted o’er the wave ; 

Every eve their ocean mistress 
Had they beckoned them to save. 

When the hurricane the surges 
Of the maddened ocean ploughed, 

On their knees in leaking vessels 
Lady-journeys had they vowed. 

12 



126 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


Like their gentle, valiant captain, 

They themselves but childlike thought 

Yow&d champions of Mary, 

'Neath whose lovely star they fought. 

Safely now to shores desired 
She her children dear had led : 

At their feet the New World's island 
Clad in fairest nature spread. 

Merrily the drum and bugle 

Mingled with the clarion’s sound ; 

Solemnly the chants of friars 

To the heavens quavering wound. 

Messengers of glee and terror 

Slow and strange the cannon boomed, 

And in mystic clouds of incense 
Land and sea and vessels gloomed. 

'Mid the strains of martial music, 
Followed by religious band, 

Stepped the brave and great Columbus 
First upon the new-found land ; 

Kissed the ground in reverent gladness, 
Prayed devoutly on his knees 

To the Lord, whose cross then rooted 
First west of Atlantic seas : 

“God eternal and almighty, 

With thy sacred word thou hast 

Heaven, earth, and sea created; 

Grant, that here forever last 


LANDING OF COLUMBUS. 


127 


To thy name love, praise and honor, 

Glory to thy majesty; 

Which has deigned that through thy servant 
This new land discovered be 1” 

Solemnly the grand “ Te Deum” 

Billowed on the trembling air; 

Sweetly the “ Salve Regina” 

Wafted to the Virgin fair. 

Slowly, trembling, wonder-stricken 
Came the children of the wood, 

Eyed the fair sons of the heavens, 

Spell-bound with the music stood. 

Now approaching, then retreating, 

Now affrightened, then assured, 

Lurking now atween the bushes, 

Then with gentle signs allured— 

Soon, however, curious nature 
Triumphed over timid freaks ; 

Closely stepped they to the white men, 

Touched their beards, and stroked their cheeks. 

Most of all the lordly viceroy 
Clad in crimson met their eye ; 

Gentler, nobler than the others, 

And in stature grand and high. 

Kindly them to him beckoned, 

Gently stroked their beardless chin, 

Gave them presents small, but valued, 

Sweetly sought their love to win. 


128 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


And the missionary mildly 
Glanced upon his tawny son, 

Breathed a fervent prayer for him 
Whom ere long to Christ he won. 

Brightly gleamed the rosy evening 
In the mild October sky 

On the Saviour’s isle rechoing 
With the natives’joyous cry. 

Happy day! when to the red man 
First the Sun of Justice beamed. 

Happy day! when on the New World 
First the Star of Ocean gleamed. 

Happy e’er, my dear Columbia ! 

Wilt thou be, if on thee shine 

Thus the God-Man and his Mother, 
And their saving love be thine ! 


THE ECLIPSE. 


129 


THE ECLIPSE. 

Take all we have, thou heavenly man! 

And let our mistress smile again ! 

Joanna Bailie. 

Arranged along the wreck-strewn beach 
Jamaica’s war-chiefs list’d the speech 
Of great Columbus, by the blast 
Of raving tropic oceans cast 
Helpless and wretched on their isle, 

Beset with foes of treacherous guile, 

E’er haunted by the murmurer’s mood, 
Tormented with the cry for food. 

“ My warrior-brethren!” thus he spake; 

“ In vain ye try the strength to break 
Of them whose Father in the skies 
Lists pityingly his children’s cries. 

His sons we are who o’er the seas 
The tempest sweeps, the sturdy trees 
Lifts from the ground, the mountain rock 
Quakes ’neath the furicanes’ shock. 

Him, the Great Spirit, we adore; 

His love we share and bounteous store: 

O’er us as o’er his children dear 
His kindly wing e’er hovers near. 

Though now awhile the storm of woes 
In maddened whirrings o’er us blows ; 

12 * 



130 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. # • 


Though now with bitter want oppressed 
We wander through your isle distressed : 
Yet shall the whist and prosperous gale 
Eftsoons our drooping spirits hail; 

Yet the Great Spirit’s bounteous hand 
Shall soon us lead into his land; 

Where freed from hunger, toil and woes 
In endless bliss we shall repose. 

But wo to those who shut their door 
Unpiteous to the hungering poor ! 

Wo to you, warriors ! if the white 
Sons of the Spirit ye dare slight; 

See them expiring on your shores, 

While ye withhold your well-filled stores. 
Already now that venging Power 
Rolls from the skies his wrathful shower, 
Fraught with dire pestilence’s storm, 
Ghastly with famine’s languid form : 

Your blooming island to o’erspread 
With all the horrors of the dead. 

In sign of which this very night 
The Spirit’s beauteous bride her light 
Shall sudden from your eyes conceal, 

And to a worthier race reveal 
The lustre, which the cruel foe 
Of his dear children must forego.” 


He said, and to his ship withdrew. 
Strange horrors on the chieftains grew. 
Yet some mocked their anxiety, 

And scoffed the ominous prophecy.— 


THE ECLIPSE. 


131 


O’er the wood spread the shades of night, 
And soon the moon her silvery light 
Shed wontedly atween the boughs 
Lighting a thousand savage brows 
Fearing the white men’s marvellous pow’r, 
And anxious for the omened hour. 

It came—and lo ! a darksome shade 
Athwart the fair moon slowly spread : 

First hid her glowing orient side, 

Then stretching out in gloom’ness wide 
Enwrapt her face, the night-god’s charm, 
And crept across her white left arm. 
Darkness immeasured and profound 
Weighed on the deep and on the ground. 
The timid red man’s shittle doubts, 

The skeptic warrior’s scornful shouts 
Commingled now to doleful cries, 

Which rent the quivering, rolling skies. 
The warriors yelled, the women screamed, 
Wild terror on each forehead gleamed. 
Seizing their goods, in one wild band, 

They dashed unto the wreck-strewn strand, 
Threw them before the white chiefs feet, 
And prayed him his great God t’ entreat: 
The night-sun’s beauteous light once more 
To shed upon their darkened shore, 

The threatened famine and grim pest 
To ward off from their isle unblest. 

“ Never in time to come,” they cried, 

“ Shall plenteous stores be thine denied ! 
No ! rather shall thy righteous hand 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES 


To desert change our blooming land; 

Rather us smite the fiery rod, 

Which thunders thy puissant God ; 1 
Than that his children on our isle 
With hearts ungrateful we beguile !” 

Thus they in frantic grief; their cries 
With fears renewed wildly rise. 

Awhile stern and inflexible 
The viceroy list’d their doleful yell; 

Then to consult the fate divine 
Withdrew into the inner shrine. 

Without continual moans and sighs 
Commingled swept the murky skies, 

Till from his secret prayer again 
The white chief rose and thus began : 

“ My warrior-brethren ! while the rage 

Of the Great Spirit assuage 

His forest children’s sorrowing cries, 

And promises with rich supplies 
His sons from hunger to defend, 

And e’er as brothers to befriend; 

Lo ! he withdraws his vengeful rod, 

And lights anew your gloomy sod !” 

He said and scarcely closed his lips, 

When slowly fled the dire eclipse : 

The murky mists and shades withdrew 
Whence first the omened darkness grew, 
The moon’s right bared, her beauteous face, 
Her left, till on her cloudless trace 


THE CARIB’S CAPTURE. 


133 


Fully revealed in all her charms 
She rushed into the night-god’s arms. 
Along the beach the tawny bands 
Uplifting high their thankful hands 
Broke loudly into joyous cries, 

And wildly hailed the moonlit skies ; 
Their gifts all round the viceroy strewed, 
With tears of joy his feet bedewed ; 
From every island village poured 
The cereals of their annual hoard. 

No efferous brave thenceforth durst face 
With haughty mien the heavenly race. 
None but rejoiced to win the love 
Of men who ruled the fates above. 

Long years had fled, and thousand lips 
Yet spoke the marvellous eclipse ; 

And maidens in areytos sweet 
Still sang the white chief’s godly feat. 


-+<>+ 


THE CARIB’S CAPTURE. 

Must then at once (the character to save) 

The plain rough hero turn a crafty knave?— Pope. 

Before the Oarib chieftain 
The wily Spaniard stood : 

“Come with me to my master, 

The friendly and the good l 




134 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


Sent from above to shower 
Heaven’s gifts upon thy land, 

To peace and lasting union 
He asks thy brother-hand. 

The magic bell of Turey, 

That calls each morn and eve 

The white men to their prayers, 
He wishes thee to give.” 

At once the chief’s dark features 
With joy began to glow : 

“To-morrow,” quick he answered, 
“ I’ll thither with thee go !” 

But when the rays of morning 
With gold o’erspread the land, 

Confused Alonzo witnessed 
A numerous warrior-band. 

“ What’s this ? lord of Maguana ! 
Why this array with thee ? 

Thee, not thy valiant warriors, 

My master wills to see.” 

“ Where’er goes Caonabo, 

As monarch does he go, 

Attended by his warriors, 

In kingly pomp and glow !” 

The crafty Spaniard muffled 
His trouble in his breast.— 

At mid-day thus the chieftain 
He artfully addressed: 


THE CARIB’S CAPTURE. 


135 


“See here ! this dazzling silver, 

In Turey’s foundry wrought; 

From my great king expressly 
For thee have I it brought. 

On feasts and solemn dances 
Held in the bluey skies 

He round his hands these bracelets 
In sign of royalty ties. 

Bathe now in yonder river ! 

When eke around thy hands 

I’ll tie these regal presents, 

These dazzling silvery bands. 

Then on this noble war-horse 
With me thou shalt be raised ; 

And thus shown to thy subjects 
Awe-stricken and amazed.” 

At once the joyful chieftain 
Into the river sprang— 

Around his hands the manacles 
Of polished iron rang. 

Upon Ojeda’s war-horse 
Behind the captain raised 

Shown was he to his subjects 
Awe-stricken and amazed. 

But scarce the glittering pageant 
Before their eyes had flashed, 

Than thwart the foaming river 
The Spaniard with him dashed. 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


Into the sombre forest 
And bushy glen he flew; 

Around the chief the white men 
Their flashing sabres drew: 

“ Speak’st thou a word, thou diest! 

Unto their captain then 
They bind the fierce-souled warrior 
And spur along the glen. 

In Isabella’s prisons 
The Spaniards’ bravest foe, 

By shrewd Alonzo captured, 
Broods o’er his endless woe. 


THE RELIC OF CUEYBAS. 


137 


THE RELIC OE CUEYBAS. 

The indulgent mother, conscious how infirm 
Her offspring tread the paths of good and ill, 

By this illustrious image, in each kind 
Still more illustrious where the object holds 
Its native powers most perfect, she by this 
Illumes the headstrong impulse of desire, 

And sanctifies his choice.— Akenside. 

In the village of Cueybas 
Stood a little rustic shrine, 

Where was kept a pretty picture 
Of the Mother-Maid divine. 

Brave Alonzo de Ojeda, 

The Castilian cavalier, 

Had this hermitage erected 
And put in the picture dear. 

In the marshy wastes of Cuba, 

From the haunts of men exiled, 

’Twixt the mangrove trees and brushwood, 
’Mid the horrors of the wild 

When he famished groped and struggled 
With his fierce and desperate crew, 

And the thirtieth morn already 
On them dying hazy grew ; 

13 


138 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


Fastening to a tree this picture, 
Kneeling on the swampy ground, 

With his hands unto it lifted 
He to Mary thus him bound : 

“ Oh my dear and sweet protectress ! 

If from out this dismal fen 

Thou me and my comrades leadest 
Safely to the homes of men; 

I thee vow, that in the village 
First we meet I will thee rear 

A neat hermitage, and ever 

Leave there this thy picture dear !” 

Ardent then his reckless pathway 
Through the moorland he pursued— 

Yet the western sun low glimmered, 
And Cueybas’ huts they viewed. 

Eft his vow he there completed, 

And the village chieftain prayed : 

“ Never let the hand of stranger 
On this picture dear be laid !” 

Once the red man’s friend Las Casas 
To this lonely village came; 

And the children of the forest 
Flocked in thousands at his name. 

To the Virgin’s cleanly chapel 
He them called, and sacrificed, 

Taught the warriors and the women, 
And their little ones baptized. 


THE RELIC OF CUEYBAS. 


139 


But he longed to have the wondrous 
Picture of the Mother-Maid, 

And he offered to the chieftain 
One more pretty in its stead. 

As if wounded by an arrow 
Darted from a parent’s hand, 

Stunned the chieftain eyed the Father, 
And rejoined his warrior-band. 

When next morn the good Las Casas 
Sought anew the Virgin shrine, 

He could find of the loved picture 
Not a trace and not a sign. 

Fearing for his precious relic, 

In the darkness of the night, 

With his treasure to the mountains 
Had the chieftain turned in flight. 

Vainly good Las Casas promised 
His dear gift with him to leave, 

Vainly his own beauteous image 
To him offered he to give : 

He returned not to his village 
Till the Spaniard last had gone ; 

When again the wondrous picture 
In the oratory shone. 

Now in hundred towns of Cuba 
Lady-temples brilliant shine, 

Where is kept the lovely image 
Of the Mother-Maid divine. 


140 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


FIRST SIGHT OF THE SOUTH SEA. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restless to and fro, 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest; 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow, 
nis beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

Longfellow 

The hazy morn scarce simmered 
In Quaraqua’s silent dale, 

And over wood and village 

Lingered still night’s misty veil; 

When loudly on his warriors 
The unwearied Nunez called, 

To climb the mountain rugged, 

High and snow-capt, steep and bald. 

For westward lay an ocean 
To the white’s gaze yet unknown, 

Along whose rich-clad borders 
Gold and crystal pearls were sown ; 

Whereon in gilded palaces 
Potent monarchs richly swayed; 

Whose thrones were purest ivory 
And with virgin gold inlaid. 


FIRST SIGHT OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


141 


Such dreamy hopes the bosoms 
Of the Spaniards warmly beat, 

As marshalled they stood ready 
At the mountain’s wooded feet. 

Such hopes their steps urged upward 
As they climbed the rugged side, 

And heat, thirst, hunger battling 
With each other bravely vied. 

The sun now rolled his noon-car, 

And the withering greensward bleached; 

When wayworn, scorched and panting 
A mount-circled plain they reached. 

Thence pointing to a hillock 

Loud exclaimed the Indian guide : 

“ From yonder spot the waters 
Of the great Sea can be eyed !” 

Balboa now his followers 

Ordered in the plain to wait; 

Himself alone the mountlet 
Climbed with awe and hopes elate. 

But, oh! when on its summit. 

What a scene ’neath dimmed his eye ! 

Behold an ocean laving 

With its waves the wide blue sky! 

Below a thick-grown forest 
And flower-strewn savannas waved, 

Through which meandering rivers 
The gold-studded bottom laved. 

13 * 


142 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


With thankful heart o’erflowing 
Sank Balboa on his knee, 

And praised God, that of white men 
He had first beheld that Sea. 

Then loud his gallant soldiers 
He the summit bade ascend, 

And in the strain of gladness 
Their unbounded praises blend. 

“ Behold yon golden borders 
Mingled with the pearly main ! 

For God and for our Sovereigns 
Them ere long our arms shall gain 

The noble-hearted warriors 

Fell enraptured round his neck, 

And swore him e’er to follow 
Unto death’s stroke at his beck. 

Then, while they knelt, Be Yara 
The “Te Deum” priestly sang; 

And first across the South Sea 
The Almighty’s praises rang. 


THE RESCUE. 


143 


THE RESCUE. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long, 

Until the pity of her soul grew strong. 

Felicia Hemans. 


Amid Virginia’s forest wilds, 

On York’s green wooded side, 

Where surging high the mountain stream 
Braves the Atlantic tide, 

Powhatan with his warrior-chiefs 
In solemn council sate, 

Revolving with awe-mingled mind 
The English captive’s fate. 

Placed in the circle of his foes 
Calm stood he and unfeared, 

From earliest youth in battle’s din 
And captive’s fetters reared. 

Still young was he, and o’er his brow 
Youth’s blooming freshness spread, 
And mingling strangely gleamed his eye 
Sweet love and direful dread. 

His judges superstitiously 

The marvellous stranger eyed ; 

Now wished they for his quick release, 
Then for his death they cried : 


144 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


Some thought him of a heavenly race, 
Whom ’t would be death to slay; 

To others but a man he seemed, 

Yet mightier far than they. 

Close clinging to Powhatan’s side 
A bonny, dark-eyed maid, 

Scarce budding in her eleventh spring, 
Yet like a matron staid, 

With anxious eye now on the braves 
Then on the captive gazed, 

Despairing now she sank her head 
Then hopefully it raised. 

The stranger’s slender, graceful form, 
His features fair and white, 

So unknown in her native wilds, 

Allured the maiden’s sight. 

And should such noble, lovely frame 
Be bleeding laid and cold, 

And never more his face divine 
Her eyes should then behold ? 

But what compassion could a gul, 
Though daughter of a king, 

From hearts to scenes of carnage nursed 
And deadly hatred wring ! 

She sank her on the trodden turf, 

And prayed the Spirit Great, 

To turn his kindly eye upon 
The captive’s cruel fate. 


THE RESCUE. 

\ 

Fiercer and greedier now for death 
The heated warriors grew. 

The sachems hateful of the white 
O’erruled the pitying few. 

The king himself, though loving of 
The new and friendly race, 

Feared their increasing numbers soon 
His own tribe would efface. 

The white man’s doom was fixed; with wild 
Acclaim the warriors sprang 

Up from the green, and fiercely through 
The woods their war-whoops rang. 

Two youths the victim still unmoved 
Unto the slaughter led, 

And bent, to meet the tomahawk’s 
Fierce stroke, his lordly head. 

Already by the warrior swung 
Flashed the terrific blade, 

When suddenly from out the throng 
Rushed forth the dark-eyed maid : 

The murderous weapon she upheld ; 

Her little arms around 

The lov&d captive’s bowkd neck 
Entreatingly she wound. 

“Oh, father !” cried she ; “oh ye braves ! 
List me awhile, I pray! 

Oh think once more, before ye thus 
This wondrous stranger slay! 


14,5 


146 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


Can he not for you warriors make 
Strong hatchets in the fight, 

And for us children rattling toys 
And strings of beads so bright ?” 

The warriors at each other gazed; 

Strange awe benumbed their soul: 
Why should a girl so little with 
A stranger thus condole ? 

And might this pale-faced captive not 
A heavenly being be, 

Whom if they slew, they might expect 
Perennial misery? 

Convinced thus by mysterious fears, 
The council-sachems gave 
The gaudy calumet to smoke 
Unto the English brave. 

He, taking it, its fumes to God 
A thankful incense paid, 

Who e’en in savage breasts had sowed 
The pity of the maid 


BAPTISM ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 


147 


BAPTISM ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

Jaratus praeelaram Huronum exscindere gentem 
Iroquaeus multa vastabat caede colonos, 

Hostibus occisis, pessumdedit Algonquinos. 

Journal of Jesuit Missionaries. 

O’er the dying Huron warrior the gentle Black-Robe 
bent, 

With his hand upon the shattered side the poisoned 
shaft had rent; 

Low Le whispered : “ Son, have e’er the Spirit’s waters 
cleansed thy soul ?” 

“No, alas, my Father!” sighed the brave, and heaved 
with inward dole. 

Near the broad St. Lawrence rolled his waves low 
murmuring by the hill, 

And the Black-Robe hastened to the bank his bowl¬ 
shaped cap to fill. 

Yet the distant hazy morning wrestled with the nightly 
gloom, 

And athwart the pine-grown forest reigned the silence 
of the tomb. 

As he hurried on his pathway dark through firs and 
pines and brake, 

Hark!—the cracking of a twig he heard and hiss as of 
a snake: 


148 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


’Twas the Huron war-chief’s sign, and lo ! eftsoons he 
joyous eyed 

His undaunted brave Ahasistari through the brush¬ 
wood glide. 

“ Hasten, Father, hence with me !” he said; “ while 
yet there’s time to fly.” 

“ My dear son! I cannot while around me men un¬ 
christened die; 

Save but thee, and flee!”—“No! never shall Ahasis- 
tari’s feet 

Like a coward’s from his Father’s side to shameful 
flight retreat!” 

“ From his duty ne’er the brave man shrinks I” the 
Jesuit warm replied; 

“Not a warrior true the battle flies, no priest the 
dying’s side ! 

Go to yours, my son ! I thither hasten to yon dying 
brave, 

With the Spirit’s healing, hallowed stream his wounded 
soul to save.” 

“You will do your duty,” said the chief; “Ahasistari 
will 

By your side do his.—Hark!—moccasined feet tram¬ 
pling down the hill!” 

Low the grim owl cried ; then death-like silence thwart 
the forest spread. 

To the Black-Robe’s feet the chieftain stepped, and 
lowly whispering said: 


BAPTISM ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 


149 


“They prepare them for attack; Ahasistari must be 
there. 

When thou hear’st the Huron war-cry, of the bloody 
foe beware! 

Know, thy children fight to save thy life; a trusty 
covert seek 

Down the shore, while on the treacherous foe our ven¬ 
geance just we wreak!” 

On the ground the war-chief stretched himself. Dark 
mists yet hid the scene. 

To the river eft the Jesuit turned the dewy copse be¬ 
tween ; 

With the limpid water filled his cap; retrod his danger¬ 
ous way 

To the spot where struggling still with death the 
wounded Indian Lay. 

With a wistful look the cooling draught the dying 
warrior eyed, 

Touched his fevered lips, and but the one word “ water” 
lowly sighed. 

With a happy smile the Father laid his head upon his 
arm ; 

While the sweet regale of charity dispelled the foe’s 
alarm. 

Now he raised his hand the more regaling Spirit’s 
wave to shed, 

When a ruthless palm fell ^'heavily upon his barbd 
head, 


14 


150 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


Turned it back, till met his swimming eye the fierce 
and savage glare 

Of an Iroquois his blood-drenched hatchet swinging in 
the air. 

For awhile the truculent brave joyed his weapon thus 
to wave.— 

Yet remained a moment—precious time !—a dying soul 
to save:— 

Down the Huron’s aching brow the healing water 
gently flows; 

Yet the words of the Great Spirit from the Black- 
Robe’s lips arose. 

“Oh, my God!” he joyous cried; “I thank”—down 
came the savage blow— 

Pealed a sudden shot upon the air—sank deadly-struck 
the foe.— 

To the Black-Robe’s feet the gallant chief Ahasistari 
sprang;— 

Wildly through the pines again the fierce and horrid 
war-whoop rang. 


DEATH AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS. 151 


DEATH AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS. 


Low on his cross the Jesuit falls. —Whittier. 


Bedded atween the darkling pines 
Within a grassy dale, 

Where the Kennebec’s stream silvery shines 
In the splendor of the sunshiny rock, 

Lay the Indian village of Norridgewock, 

Like a flower in the vale. 

Joyous the wigwamed lanes along 
The squaw’s and maid’s wild cheer 

Trilled in wayward notes their favorite song. 

Gone had Owenagunga’s braves to the chase 
Of the bison and beaver, and to trace 
The track of the fleeting deer. 

Praying within the chapel lay 
The Jesuit on his knee : 

From the earliest dawn of the springing day 
Had he prayed to ease his soul of the gloom 
Which benumbed his heart with a threatening doom; 
Yet he felt unwonted glee. 

Well may it be, his sunny France 
And natal home of Ralle 

On his glowing brow lit a longing glance. 


152 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


But the pleasureful notes of nature long 

Had been drowned in the strains of a sweeter song : 

To be made all to gain all. 

Not the fond love of home his breast, 

But English foemen’s hate, 

With foreboding dread of evil oppressed. 

Yet his braves after matin’s hours of prayer 
Had he sent away as serenely as e’er, 

Undismayed at threatening fate-.- 

Sudden upon the still air rang 
A hundred-tongued wild yell, 

With the rattle of drums and arms’ shrill clang : 

Peal on peal whizzed the ball, the tomahawk flew; 
While anon to the din the death-scream grew 
Where the thirsty weapon fell. 

Who are the fiends that madly rush 
Thus on defenceless weak? 

With their blood-drenched clubs feeble women crush? 
Where no warrior stands near to avenge the dead, 

And hurl back grim death on the cursed foe’s head, 

His undying wrongs to wreak. 

Who but the truculent Puritan clan, 

E’er bent on deeds of woe, 

With foul Harmon and Moulton to lead the van, 
And the satellite Mohawks, in treachery nursed, 

To slaughter, where New England’s pigeon-hearts durst 
Not defy their bravest foe ? 


DEATH AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS. 153 


In his lone cell the yells afar 
The praying priest recall. 

On nearer and nearer the murderous war 
Rolls its horrors, while strangely mingled rise 
The exulting shouts, and the moaning cries 
Of the victims as thev fall. 

V 

Well does the men-skilled Jesuit know 
Himself their only aim ; 

Both in creed and in birth their deadliest foe. 

Not for Owenagunga’s warriors bold, 

Whom they knew to roam on the distant wold; 

For himself alone they came. 

Long for grim death prepared no fears 
Disturb his saintly soul; 

With heroic zeal he burns, as he hears 
The renewed shrieks of his slaughtered flock, 

And with louder and wilder acclaim the fierce shock 
Of the bigots onward roll. 

Sudden unwonted fires he feels ; 

Celestial eyes him greet: 

On the altar-steps devoutly he kneels, 

Breathes an “Ave Maria” his Lord before ; 

Then undauntedly speeds to the chapel-door, 

His blood-thirsty foe to meet. 

On through the dying-and-dead-filled streets 
Of burning Norridgewock 

Fired with motherly care the Jesuit fleets; 

14 * 


154 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


’Mid tlie death-casting balls’ and tomahawks’ shower 
Consoling the dying with heavenly power, 

The true shepherd of his flock. 

Now by the cross, where mangled lie 
Heaps of the slain, he stands. 

Lo ! the demons their long-sought victim spy! 

“ Ho ! the Popish dog !” they savagely roar ; 

And at once the death-strewing thunders pour 
From a hundred levelled hands. 

Down sinks the Jesuit to the ground, 

His arms the cross entwine, 

Dyeing deep its base from his gaping wound; 

One last prayer he breathes : “ Jesu ! Marie !” 

One last kiss he prints on the loved tree, 

His Redeemer’s blessed sign. 

Strangers to honors of the dead 
The fierce fanatics rush 

On the corse and exultingly it tread. 

Anxious to destroy each hated trace 

E’en the sacred cross they tear from its place, 

And it o’er the martyr crush. 

Then through the lanes with frantic yell 
And loud blood-sated roar 

On they butchering heap the slaughtered swell; 
Till they glut their fury in blood divine, 

Trampling God himself wrested from his shrine 
’Neath their feet besmeared with gore. 


THE TRAPPER’S DREAM. 


155 


Oh ! and are these the lauded men, 

By bigots crowned with fame. 

Who pretended to flee from England’s den 
Of oppression, freely to serve their God, 

And now drench with Papist gore their own sod ? 
Cast in bloody prints their name ! 

But thou, great martyr ! what bright scenes 
Of future bliss recall 

Thy last pangs ’neath the cross of the Taranteens ! 
All unconsciously the generous soul 
Wings her flight to the pleasure-streaming goal 
At thy glorious death, Pkre Ralle ! 


-•O*- 


THE TRAPPER’S DREAM. 

Where is the troubled heart consigned to share 
Tumultuous toils, or solitary care, 

Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray 
To count the joys of fortune’s better day? 

Campbell. 

’Twas night, and through the leafy boughs, 
Touched .by the wind’s low sigh, 

The waning moon her silvery light 
Poured from the cloudless sky. 




156 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


Below the Mississippi poured 
His waves with rumbling sound ; 

Far to the western hillocks stretched 
The brambly, swampy ground. 

There bedded in his bison-hide 
The hardy trapper lay: 

He slept, but from his forest haunts 
His thoughts were far way. 

E’er and anon athwart his face 
There gleamed a joyous glance : 

He seemed once more to tread the vales 
Of his own sunny France. 

From every house and cottage near 
Old friends his coming greet. 

He hastens to his humble cot, 

His loved ones to meet. 

From out the door his faithful wife 
Unto his bosom flies, 

Clings mute with happiness to his neck ; 
Joy’s tears stream from her eyes. 

His little ones all press around, 

Their father dear to kiss; 

His tender heart nigh rends with joy, 
His soul o’erflows with bliss. 

Sudden athwart the silent wood 
Rang shrill the hawk-owl’s scream ; 

The trapper started from his sleep:— 

“ Oh, God ! ’twas but a dream !” 


/ 


MARQUETTE. 


But all that night the vision strange 
Rose in his weary head ; 

In vain he tried to ease his mind, 

Sleep from his eyelids fled. 

The next morn saw him on his way 
Across the parent-stream: 

One only thought coursed through his soul, 
To realize his dream. 


o 


MARQUETTE. 

A JUVENILE EFFORT OF 1861. 


Behold him on his way! the breviary 
Which from his girdle hangs, his only shield; 
That well-known habit is his panoply, 

That cross the only weapon he will wield. 

Southe 

Sing, Algonquin bard, thy Father 
On thy mellow flute of willow, 

’Neath the groves of singing pine-trees 
In the Mississippi valley; 

When from yon bright land of morning 
First he sought thy lonely wigwam 
In the wild primeval forest, 

On the western billowy prairie, 

On the ice-fields of the northland; 




158 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


How he sailed thy ocean-river 
In thy days of glorious warfare ; 

Where, on Michigan’s bleak headlands, 
Buried lies the gallant sailor, 

Lies Marquette, the gentle Black-Robe : 
Sing in rural strains his praises ; 

Come, inspire my raptured feelings ! 

Down the northern, clear Wisconsin, 
Through the simmering haze of morning, 
Drift two light canoes of birch-bark 
Swiftly ’tween the darkling woodlands, 
Past the rushing firs and pine-trees. 
From his fiery realm of Cancer 
Beams the golden Indian Grheezis 
On the dark Algonquin rowers, 

Seated round their Black-Robe chieftain 
With the cross upon his bosom. 

Calm and simple, meek and gentle, 
Single-hearted, unpretending 
Prays Marquette, the red man’s Father. 
Toward the west his hands are lifted, 
Toward the regions of the sunset; 

Where the Blackfeet and Dacotahs 
Wildly roam upon the prairies ; 

Where their mighty Mississippi 
Rolls unblessed his sluggish waters : 
While his heart bleeds at the wailings 
Of his dear Wisconsin converts; 

As he sad the eve remembers, 

When in council round the camp-fire 


MARQUETTE. 


159 


Sate the stern Algonquin warriors, 
Kickapoos and bold Miamis, 

Mascoutins and swift Ojibways ; 

And the chieftains and the old men 
Spake persuading, spake in this wise : 

“ Never do those distant nations 
Spare the stranger in their wigwams. 
Filled with numerous bands of warriors 
Bristle e’er their hostile borders. 

On the plains the burning Gheezis 
Strikes the wearied traveller lifeless ; 

And the huge and scaly monsters 
In the mighty Mississippi 
Eat both birch-canoe and sailor.” 

“ I shall gladly,” spake the Father, 

“ Die to save the roaming red man ; 

Only send two brothers with me 
On my distant western pathway.” 

Quick, though grieved, arose the warriors, 
Brought in two canoes of birch-bark 
Sowed with cedar boughs and larch-roots, 
Closed with resin from the fir-tree, 
Brought in paddles made of oak-wood, 
And a thick, strong sail of deer-skin. 

Sad they looked, when last they saw him 
Glide along the crystal waters ; 

Still the east wind wafts their greetings 
O’er the prairie’s scented grasses ; 

Still their shouts of parting welcome 
Touch the gentle Black-Robe chieftain ; 
While the darkling oaks and hemlocks 
Rush like reindeer up the river. 


1G0 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


Beautiful shone the eastern heavens 
On the happy seventh morning; 

And the great sun lit the prairies, 

Burned the dew-drops from the grasses, 
Changed the waters into mirrors, 

Decked with gold the flowery branches ; 

When from out the clear Wisconsin 
Floated two canoes of birch-bark, 

’Twixt the nodding water-willows ; 

Sailed into the ocean-river, 

Sailed into the Mississippi, 

Rushing from the icy north lakes 
With his murmuring, crystal waters 
Toward the southern moors and fenlands. 

As they spread their sails of deer-skin 
To unknown, propitious breezes, 

’Neath the azure sky of summer, 

In the pleasant moon of strawberries, 

Tears of joy the missionary 
Mingles with his thankful prayers. 

He beholds the tawny nations, 

East and west, run from their thickets 
To the river’s reedy margin, 

Greet the cross that o’er the waters 
Glistens on the mast of oak-wood ; 

Sees their Manito like lightning 
Fly, and yield the reign to Jesus. 

Thus, while prays the raptured Black-Robe, 
•While his hand the prairies blesses, 

And his Indians shout with gladness; 

Float they o’er the Mississippi, 


MARQUETTE. 


161 


O’er the wide and glittering sandbars 
Filled with water-fowl, by thousands 
Preying on the sportive fishes. 

On they glide past checkered islands 
Swelling from the river’s bosom 
With their tufts of massive thickets; 
’Tween the Illinois rich lowlands 
And the Iowa green maize-fields. 
Widely range majestic forests, 

Billowy plains of scented grasses ; 
Whence come hurrying on the buffalo, 
Come the antelope and musk-ox, 

Press unto the sandy margin, 

Drink the pure and crystal waters 
Of the rushing Esconawbaw. 

Near the mouth of the Moingona, 
Rolling from the Sioux forests, 

Leads a footpath to a village 
Clustering on the sloping hillside. 
Thither turns the fearless Black-Robe 
With Joliet, his brave companion; 

First to tread the Mandan woodlands, 
First of all the restless white men. 

Soon, across the hills, four Indians, 
Grave with age, advance to meet them, 
Carrying the friendly peace-pipe 
Brilliant with its colored plumage. 
Toward the sun their hands were lifted, 
Both the palms spread out against it: 

“ We are Illinois,” they shouted ; 

‘*We are men,” they said, “oh stranger ! 

15 


162 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


Beautiful is the sun, oh Frenchman, 

When you come so far to see us. 

All our village greets your coming; 

You shall enter all our wigwams.” 

And they lead them to their village, 

Lead them to their nation's council; 

Where the zealous missionary 
Speaks to them of their Creator, 

Speaks to them of Christ and Mary. 
Strangely look the wondering warriors. 

Look the Medas and Wabenos, 

And the Jossakeeds, the prophets ; 

Stand with ears erect, and listen; 

For six days they stand and listen, 

Thinking on the words he tells them; 

Thank him for his words of wisdom, 

For the purport of his mission. 

Then a hundred crested warriors, 

Armed with all their warlike weapons, 

Lead them to the sandy margin, 

Where beneath the water-willows 
Lies their turned cbeemaun for sailing. 
Gravely hangs the painted war-chief 
Round the Black-Robe's neck the peace-pipe, 
Decked with beaks and claws of eagles, 

With their dappled colored feathers, 

As an offering from the Spirit, 

As a safeguard ’mid the nations. 

Calmly float they down the river, 

’Twixt the straight rocks towering o’er them, 


MARQUETTE. 


163 


Frowning on them like huge monsters; 
To the western great Missouri, 

To the swift Pekitanoni, 

Rushing, like a foaming conqueror, 

Mad into the Mississippi, 

Hasty dragging on his waters 
To the southern, fretting ocean; 

Past the eastern broad Ohio, 

Past the Wabash of the Shawnees, 

To whose rippling waves the red man. 
Brings dried meat and leaf-tobacco. 
Soon the thick canes hide the lowlands, 
Stand so close and firm together, 
Scarce the buffalo can pierce them. 
Fiercely strike the spears of Gheezis 
On the sails spread for an awning. 
Prairies vanish. Plains of white wood. 
Thick and high, crowd to the margin, 
To the shore of shining pebbles. 


Brave and hostile are the warriors 
Of the village Mitchigamea. 

Armed with bows and steel-tipped arrows, 
Tomahawks and clubs and bucklers, 

Alid the dread roar of the war-whoop. 
Shoot they o’er the trembling waters 
In their vast canoes of white wood 
Toward our peaceful, helpless strangers. 
“Help, oh Virgin 1” cries the Father; 

“ Help thy poor, forsaken children !” 

And the good Maid hears his prayers. 


164 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


Scarce the warriors see the peace-pipe 
Of the Black-Robe chief, the prophet, 
Than the chieftains check the young men 
Throw aside their bows and quivers, 

Lead the strangers to their wigwams, 
Give to them a hearty welcome, 

Seat them on rich skins of beaver, 

Smoke with them the gaudy peace-pipe 
Made of red stone from the quarry 
Of the mountains of the prairies. 

On the morn ten warriors lead them 
Down the widening, yellow river, 

’Tween the reeds and water-lilies, 

To the limit of their pathway, 

To the village of Akansea, 

Near the mouth of the Arkansas. 

From their brakes upspring the Natchez, 
Spring the Chickasaws and Clioetaws, 
Welcome them with shouts of gladness ; 
Listen to his words of wisdom, 

Listen to the great explorer 
Of the mighty Mississippi.— 

Soon the warriors of the northland 
Great again their Black-Robe chieftain 
In the sombre woods of fir-trees 
By the rusliing, clear Wisconsin. 

Sing, oh sad Algonquin minstrel! 

Of thy Father’s last departure, 

On the bleak and dreary headlands 
Of the lake of Gitche Gurnee, 


MARQUETTE. 


Where the Chippewaye and Hurons 
Roam upon the treacherous billows 
In their frail canoes of birch-bark. 
Scarce the distant, blood-red Gheezis 
Shoots his darts into the forest; 

Where beneath yon mourn-elad hemlock, 
By the murmuring crystal streamlet, 
Stands the oaken mystic altar, 

Hallowed with the world’s redemption 
Offered by Marquette, the Black-Robe, 
With his faithful Indian children. 

Then, with faltering words, the Father 
Turning toward them speaks in this wise 
“ Leave me in this silent woodland ; 

Let me speak with the Great Spirit!” 
Scarce the shadow of the fir-tree 
Has an inch receded eastward, 

When, in speechless grief, the warriors. 
Coming, see their Black-Robe chieftain 
Kneeling lifeless at the altar. 

Folding still his hands in prayer 
Sleeps Marquette the death of angels. 
Long the firs and pines re-echo 
With the red man’s wail of anguish, 

As of orphans vainly calling 
On their cold and listless parents. 

But, unlike the heathen Indian, 

Know they how to bear their sorrows 
With a Christian’s manly patience. 

In the earth they place their Father, 
Plant an oaken cross above him, 

15 * 


16G 


PRIMEVAL AMERICAN SCENES. 


As a notice to the red man ; 

Say the prayers of funeral sadness 
’Neath the darkling leaves of hemlocks, 
By the strand of shining pebbles, 

Near the pictured rocks of sandstone, 
Near the cliffs of Gitclie Gurnee. 

On the cold lakes of the northland; 
When the tempest heaves the surges, 

In his frail canoe the sailor 

Calls upon Marquette, the Black-Robe; 

Aud the rivers and the headlands, 

And the mountains and the ice-fields 
Still recall him to the hunter, 

Lonely hurrying with his ride 
Through the forest on his snow-shoes. 
Still the mighty Mississippi 
Sings his praise in solemn murmurings; 
And the waving western prairies 
Deck his footprints with their grasses, 
Trod still by the Black-Robe hurrying 
To the gusty Rocky Mountains, 

To the Blackfeet aud the Flatheads; 
Where the cross o’ertops the wigwam, 
And the red man’s hymn of gladness 
Echoes in the nodding pine-trees. 



ADDRESSES. 


(16 




















» 








ADDRESSES. 


TO MY MAYLILY. 

A Song to the Virgin. 

Now the winter’s gone, my Maylily, 
With its cold and cheerless scene ; 

And the hills and vales look smilingly 
In their dress of velvet green. 

Oh my Maylily! Oh my Maylily! 

How sweet thou art and fair ! 

Like the blushing rose, that pleasantly 
With fragrance scents the air! 

From their sunny climes, my Maylily, 
The sweet birds rehail our spring, 

And again among us merrily 
Their perennial love-songs sing. 

Oh my Maylily! etc. 

I have come again, my Maylily, 

To renew the loved hour, 

Which so oft we whilome happily 
Spent beneath the lilach bow’r. 

Oh my Maylily! etc. 

(160 



170 


ADDRESSES. 


Fair and beautiful, my Maylily, 

Thou to me hast always seemed ; 

But so lovingly and charmingly 

Thou hast ne’er yet on me gleamed. 

Oh my Maylily! etc. 

Bright and glittering, my Maylily, 

Shoots the sun athwart the sky; 

But his rays reflect them pallidly 
In the splendor of thine eye. 

Oh my Maylily! etc. 

Lovely smiles the vale, my Maylily, 

In the verdure of the south; 

But it smiles not half so lovingly 
As thy rosy-lipphd mouth. 

Oh my Maylily! etc. 

Fairest of all flowers, my Maylily, 

Blooms the fragrant, blushing rose; 

But a fairer rose more beauteously 
On thy cheek perennial glows. 

Oh my Maylily! etc. 

Far and wide perfumes, my Maylily! 

From the flowers scent the air; 

But an odor more delightfully 
Rises from thy golden hair. 

Oh my Maylily ! etc. 

Through the dangling groves, my Maylily! 
The sweet bird his carol rings ; 

But thy charming voice more tenderly 
Thy melodious love-notes sings. 

Oh my Maylily! etc. 


TO ST. ROSE OF LIMA. 


171 


With that voice me hail, my Maylily, 
To the trellised lilach bow’r ; 

That once more we may spend happily 
In renewed loves the hour ! 

Oh my Maylily! etc. 


-•O 


TO ST. ROSE OF LIMA. 

Favored Maid, who first of Sainted 
In America arose, 

Leader of the New World’s virgins, 
Beautiful and fragrant Rose! 


In the land, which to Pizarro 
Lent a great but bloody fame, 

Thou the tainted breeze hast scented 
With the perfume of thy name. 

What he to obtain endeavored 
With the sword and torch’s glare, 
Thou hast gained, a tender maiden, 
With long fasts and midnight pray’r. 

O’er the silver-bedded Andes, 

Round the Amazon’s clear springs, 
From the lips of white and red men 
Thy undying honor rings. 




ADDRESSES. 


Glad would I, a country-brother, 

Now in longer strains thee praise ; 
But thy saintly virgin lustre 
Calls for purer, sweeter lays. 

Only pray I thee, whom first Saint 
In America God chose, 

Grant, that countless maids may rival 
In my land thee, heavenly Rose ! 


TO PIUS IX. 

The tyrant’s mercenary bands 

Lay waste Romagna’s fertile plain, 

With impious, sacrilegious hands 
God’s holy shrine profane. 

The mangled victims of their ire 
On every street and pathway bleed ; 

Their barbarous, inhuman fire 
Faith, lore and virtue feed. 

The lonely widow’s mournful cry, 

The motherless babe’s helpless wail, 

The spouse-bereaved maiden’s sigh 
Their savage souls regale. 

With lips distilling human gore 
The cry of liberty they ring, 

Vaunt to renew the Rome of yore, 
While crouching to a king, 




TO PIUS IX. 


173 


Whose soul exhales the poisoned breath 
Of liberty’s unhallowed grave, 

Whose freedom’s gift is worse than death: 
The shackles of the slave. 

Yet men like these the silly world 
Oppression’s destroyers names, 

Their banner but to slave unfurled 
As freedom’s flag proclaims. 

And weakly emperors and kings 

Wink at the tyrant’s growing might; 

Sleep while the horrid funeral rings 
Of liberty and right. 

But on the world benighted gleams 
One star yet in the darksome night; 

The Sun’s of Justice splendor beams 
On men still loving right. 

Thou, Ninth of Piuses ! the sword 
Of righteousness unflinchkd wield’st; 

Thou solely not to wolvish horde 
Thy loved lambkins yield’st. 

Surrounded by perfidious kings, 

Not one to stand undaunted by, 

Stretched on a bed of sufferings 
Unequalled ’neath the sky. 

Impeached by thousand traitorous tongues, 
Reviled by countless heresies, 

Accused of fabricated wrongs, 

O’erwhelmed with calumnies ; 

16 


174 


ADDRESSES. 


Thou from thy apostolic rock, 

Surrounded by thy gallant braves, 

Eesistest unto death the shock 
Of tyranny’s hired slaves. 

Yet mindful of thy Master’s word, 

With meekness to o’ercome the foe, 

Thou turn’st the crosier, not the sword, 
Against th’ impending woe. 

Who e’er like thou so mild and sweet, 
O’erwhelmed with trials like thine own, 

Such patience ’neath insult’s feet 
Has ever like thine shown. 

No mother o’er her slaughtered child 
Such tears as thou o’er him has shed ; 

No heart transpierced with sorrow wild 
Like thine has ever bled. 

Eefection of the hungering poor, 

Kind father of the parentless, 

To every sorrow opened door, 

Consoler in distress ! 

The base reviler may thy name 
Contend to blacken with disgrace, 

The lying poet may thy fame 
Endeavor to efface; 

But sooner truth her sacred lips 
Forever to the world shall seal, 

Than that the good in lie’s eclipse 
Thy innocence conceal. 


TO PIUS IX. 


its 


Mind not, illustrious sufferer ! 

The bitter jeer, the heaven-cursed wrong; 

Thv million children round thee e’er 
Will true and valiant throng. 

Though in thy Vatican should grow 
The fatlings of their cursed brood, 

Though on Siberia’s fields of snow 
Thou flee their track of blood ; 

Yet will to thee thy children cling, 

Their father thee will yet proclaim, 

In every church of Christ will ring 
Love’s blessings on thy name. 

Fear not! thou restest ’neath her shield, 
Whom thou hast robed in lily’s charm ; 

Thy vaunting foes will once more yield 
To her puissant arm. 

Serenely eye the maddened shock 
Of human and infernal bands ! 

Thou stand’st securely on the rock 
Built by the Saviour’s hands ! 


IT 6 


ADDRESSES. 


TO MY MOTHER. 

Duty sweet, to love one’s mother; 

Duty none, when happily 
One a mother hath, whose goodness 
Laboreth unceasingly. 

Such wast thoo, dearest of mothers ! 

Whom God kindly to me gave, 
Ceaselessly to guard and love me 
From my cradle to thy grave. 

Joyously my infant slumbers, 

Merrily my boyish days, 

Happily my years of youthhood 
Passed beneath thy tender gaze. 

Cruel was the day, when from me 
Cold, relentless death thee tore; 
Lonesome was the peopled city 
When mine eyes saw thee no more. 

Mother! from thy blessed homestead 
Turn on me thy lovely eye! 

Let not long me lonely wander; 
Listen to my longing sigh! 





TO CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 


177 


TO CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 

On westward, prince of mariners ! 

Though Mandeville’s Cathay 
And Polo’s famed Cipango’s isle 
Close not thy liquid way; 

Yet fairer, richer, vaster realms 
Shall greet thy longing eyes, 

And all thy giant soul’s fond hopes 
Immensely realize. 

On westward, prince of mariners ! 

Though dark-souled, envious feres 
Will labor all thy after life 
To drown in bitterest woes; 

Yet shall they but in brighter sheen 
Thy mind serve to reveal, 

And stamp their own degraded soul 
With infamy’s black seal. 

On westward, prince of mariners ! 

Though meritless of fame 
A puny merchant will pervert 
Thy country with his name ; 

Yet shall not less thy sole desert 
Be known and prized by all; 

And poet shall delight thy land 
Columbia to call. 

16 * 


ns 


ADDRESSES. 


TO GEORGE WASHINGTON. 

Once more returns thy natal day 
To Freedom without stain ; 

And thousand freeborn children’s lips 
Join in the thankful strain : 

Oh Father of our Country! 

Dim shone that day, when first athwart 
Sylvania’s ice-clogged stream 

Thou sought’st the haughty Briton’s host, 
Our Freedom still a dream— 

Oh Father of our Country ! 

Celestial light that day illumed, 

When trampling on the foe 

Thou foundedst sacred Freedom’s home, 

The fairest here below— 

Oh Father of our Country! 

Truth decked her in her brightest robe, 
When on that happiest day 

Each brave heart spoke, and mothers taught 
Their little ones to say: 

Oh Father of our Country! 

But, ah! veiled not that day itself 
In clouds of black despair? 

When traitors sprang up from this sod, 

Thy glory to impair— 

Oh Father of our Country! 


TO A CICERONIAN. 


Immortal liero ! and lived not 
Still in our midst thy sword? 

Down sank the fiends, and on that day 
Rang louder Freedom’s word: 

Oh Father of our Country! 

Oh, may for countless ages hence 
Thy pure, undying fame 
On each thy natal day return 
The blessings of thy name — 

Oh Father of our Country! 


•O*- 


TO A CICERONIAN. 

Thrice happy thou, who from the barbarous din 
Of rude Latiniasters find’st within 
Immortal Cicero’s sweet-swelling strains 
The heartfelt joy no vulgar mind attains ! 

On God-loved Tullius the graceful Nine 
Have showered all their learned gifts divine. 

In him the power of Demosthenes, 

Plato’s abundance, of Isocrates 
The pleasant rhythm charm the wondering ear, 
The weak console, the mighty smite with fear. 
“Not rainy showers,” as Muse-loved Pindar sings 
“ He gathers, but o’erflows in living springs;” 
Whence stream, the issue of a godly mind, 

The countless beauties of the speaking kind. 




180 


ADDRESSES. 


Bare is all eloquence without his name, 

A gloomy waste without his brilliant fame. 

But little more than nothing were the tongue, 
Which now the learned only speaks among, 
Unless Arpinum’s noble son had wrought 
In words delightful her untutored thought. 

Him nobly thou, the vulgar crowd aside, 

Hast chosen for thy true and lovfed guide. 
Proceed, and know, the more he will thee please, 
The more thy varied knowledge shall increase; 
Less darkness o’er the ignorant shall spread, 

And brighter lore on every clime be shed! 


-*o« 


TO A POET FRIEND. 

’Mid the silence of the forest, 

Far removed from peopled throng, 
Where no carol trills the foliage 
Save the mocking-bird’s wild song, 
As he mimics the boy’s whistle, 

Or the country-maiden’s lay; 

All alone, my friend, thou musest 
With the lovely Queen of May. 

Many though the themes and pleasant 
That thy charmful lyre invite, 

None but such as waft her praises 
Can thy ardent Muse incite. 




TO THE WATERS. 


181 


Boundless lore and countless beauties 
Round thy chosen love entwine; 
Fairer in her lays thy friendly 
Cares and gentle manners shine. 




TO THE WATERS. 

Brooklet, brooklet, baby brooklet, 
From thy mountain mother’s side 
Toddling down into the valley, 

Trying but to make a slide ! 

Streamlet, streamlet, boyish streamlet, 
Full of noise and full of tricks, 
Playing marbles with the pebbles, 
Spinning toy-top with the sticks ! 

Torrent, torrent, youthy torrent, 

O’er the unseen precipice 
In thy heedless rage of folly 
Dashing into the abyss ! 

River, river, manly river, 

Gravely gliding on thy course 
When unhindered, but repelling 
Each rebuff with giant force ! 




ADDRESSES. 


Ocean, ocean, hoary ocean, 

Frothy with restrainless rage 
’Neath the howling tempest’s lashes, 
Unsubdued by long-lived age !— 

Brooklet, streamlet, torrent, river, 
Ocean, my delightsome glee, 

Teach me how to shun your follies, 
Emulate your energy! 


O 


TO THE MOUNTAINS. 

Snow-crowned monarchs of the land, 
Teach me rule with wary hand! 

Bowing ’neath the azure sky, 

Make me follow Him on high! 

Soaring o’er earth’s tainted wind, 

Tell me scorn the vulgar mind ! 

Towering above the plain, 

Bid me sing a heavenly strain! 




TRANSLATIONS. 


(183) 



- 




TRANSLATIONS. 


THE PRESENTS. 

From the German of Blumenhagen. 

When the snow began to melt, 

And the meadow greened anew, 

She her lover blushing gave 

Three fair snowdrops cold with dew. 

“ Snowdrop blooms within the ice, 
Colorless and clear and cold; 

But the floweret kindly lisps : 

Soon fair spring we shall behold !”— 

And when in the May-clad groves 
Nightingale his carol trilled, 

Gave she him the greenly sash 
From her bosom pleasure-filled. 

“ ’T has upon a child’s pure heart 
Calm and faithful ta’en its rest; 

Him defend in battle’s din, 

For whom burns the virgin’s breast!’ 

17 ( 185 ) 



186 


TRANSLATIONS. 


And when bluey gleamed the grapes 
In the sunshine clear and bland, 

She love-glowing took a ring 
From her white and little hand. 

“ No beginning and no end 
Has a ring, love’s truest sign; 

’Tis for thee the flower of life, 

To preserve her—duty thine !”— 

’Gain in white and chilly garb 
Lay enwrapped the saddened mead ; 

Weeping then she from her neck 
Gave to him the pearly bead. 

“ Pearls, ah! pearls betoken tears ! 

For no more in future sigh: 

Only tears can I thee give, 

Till in sorrow breaks mine eye. 

With my brother’s death the sun 
Of our family went down ; 

For his life to our dear Lord 
I resigned my maiden-crowm. 

Yet in convent’s chastened cell 
No one can dare me prevent 

Pearly beads for thee to string, 

Ever true and on thee bent!”— 

And the diamond from his helm 
Tears the knight with love-led hand ; 

Speeds, his brow decked with the pearls, 
To the Saviour’s war-filled land. 


I STOOD UPON A MOUNTAIN. 


’Neath the battle’s horrid din 
Quivering sinks Jerusalem; 

On the highest, storm-brewed tower 
Brilliantly the pearl-beads gleam. 

To the loftiest wall the knight 
The Redeemer’s ensign bore ; 

There the maiden’s greenly sash 
A Turk-wielded sabre tore. 

“Pearls, ah! pearls betoken tears ! 

Tears tk’ impending death-winged dart!” 
Sash and ring and pearls the knight 
Dying pressed into his heart. 




I STOOD UPON A MOUNTAIN. 

After an old German ditty. 

I stood upon a mountain, 

Looked on the billowy Rhine : 

I saw a skiff, wherein were 

Three counts, on its waters shine. 

The youngest of the three counts 
Me beckoned with kindly wink, 
And from his shining goblet 
Me asked of his wine to drink. 




188 


TRANSLATIONS. 


What took lie from his finger? 

A ring so golden and fine: 

“ See here, thou fair, thou beauteous, 
Of my burning love the sign !” 

“ What sliall I with the ring do ? 

Am but of a lowly state, 

A young and helpless maiden, 

Have no money or estate !” 

“ If thou art a poor maiden, 

Hast no money or estate ; 

Think of the love that ’tween us 
Overcomes all thoughts of state !” 

“ I know naught of a love-thought, 
The presence of men I shun ; 

I’ll go into a convent, 

I wish to become a nun !” 

At night, at midnight, sadly 
Such a dream the count befell 
About his love, his treasure, 

Inclosed in the convent-cell. 

“ Stand up, my groom, and saddle 
For me and for thee a steed ! 

The trip is worth the riding : 

To the convent we must speed !” 

And when before the convent 

He came, he knocked at the gate : 
“Come out the nun, the youngest, 
That has entered but of late I” 


I STOOD UPON A MOUNTAIN. 


189 


“No nun lias entered lately; 

Nor can any come to tliee !” 

“ Then shall we fire the convent, 

This splendid nunnery!” 

There came she in her simple, 

Snow-white convent-dress arrayed: 

“ My hair is cut; forever 

Farewell, oh young count!” she said. 

The count in pensive silence 
Sat him on a mossy stone : 

Two days he there sat mourning; 

Then breathed his dying groan. 

With snowy hands the maiden 

For the young count delved the grave; 
Her eyes so black and browny 
The holy water him gave. 

With her clear voice the mournful 
Vigils of the dead she sang; 

With her sweet tongue the wailments 
Of the funeral bell she rang. 


17* 


190 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE FISHER’S WIFE. 

From the German of Wyss. 

“ What dabbles so lately out on the lake? 

Dear daughter, go out and see !”— 

’Tis our neighbor’s duck that gabbles about; 
Sleep, mother; don’t trouble thee ! 

“ What drives through the water so wild and loud 
Oh, daughter, I am afraid !”— 

Some farmer is swimming his saddle-horse; 

Sleep, mother; be undismayed! 

“ That roars so terrific like tempest’s sweep! 

List, daughter, a cry of despair — 

A jolly young fisherman rows and sings ; 

Sleep, mother; be free of care ! 

“ Oh, horror and wo ! now breaks my poor heart! 

Out must I to gain relief!”— 

She cries and she rushes from out the house, 

The mother in fear and grief. 

And silently drifts a corse to the shore 
Strewn with trees and sedge and tan: 

There lies he all naked on the black sand, 

“Oh merciful God—my man !” 


DEPARTING. 


191 


“ Now will I, my daughter, be quiet and sleep, 
Will sleep all through the long night, 

Will rest in the pleasant and never awaked 
Long sleep, that no dream can fright.” 


DEPARTING. 


From the German of Osterwald. 

When the hour drew near 
For departing’s tear, 

I beheld not the beauteous May: 

Only this I knew 

* _ 

When my leave near drew, 

That from thee I must far away. 

Song and blossom’s scent 
Wide their pleasance spent, 

But from me they all went astray: 

Only this I knew 
When my leave near drew, 

That from thee I must far away. 

Now that home I wind, 

Not at all I mind 

The fierce scourge which the winter swings ; 
For now well know I, 

That the hour is nigh, 

Which to thee once more me brings 




192 


TRANSLATIONS. 


When around me wild 
Roars the tempest’s child, 

Yet like May’s sweet maiden he sings; 
For now well know T, 

That the hour is nigh, 

Which to thee once more me brings. 




THE STARS. 


From the German of Arndt. 

And the sun rode in his circuit wide 
Round the world ; 

And the stars said : “ Let us with thee ride 
Round the world!” 

And the sun them scolded : “ Remain at home ! 
For I’ll burn your eyes out, if ye dare come 
Near my fiery track round the world !” 

And the stars went to the lovely moon 
In the night, 

And they said : “ Thou, lonely wanderers’ boon 
In the night, 

Let us travel with thee ! thy gentle light, 

It will never burn out our golden sight!” 

And she took them, companions of night. 




NOTHING AND SOMETHING. 


193 


Now welcome, my lovely moon and stars 
In the night! 

Ye know what the joys of life unbars 
In the night! 

Come, and light the sky with heavenly ray, 
That with you I may rove about and play 
In the pleasant plays of the night! 


NOTHING AND SOMETHING. 


From the German of Castelli. 

When I a song compose on nothing, 

I still compose that which is something,— 

Contains so many a poem nothing, 

And yet ’tis trumpeted as something ; 

Of others’ gain they whisper nothing, 

Although from them we could learn something: 

Hence praise or blame to me is nothing, 

And every day compose I something. 

The proverb says : he is worth nothing, 

Who quick from nothing comes to something.— 

One person makes from something nothing, 
Another soon from nothing something. 

We often angry get at nothing, 

Again are calmed e’en without something. 

God made the whole world out of nothing, 

And—man !—thou thinkest thou art something ? 




194 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Art poor thou and possessest nothing, 

No soul will then thee offer something ; 

Reversedly, if thou need’st nothing, 

The whole world then thee offers something 

Hence of thy friends expect thee nothing, 

And lay betimes aside thee something; 

I mean not money, that is nothing, 

But sciences, for they are something. 

Who all things else considers nothing, 

And virtues only holds for something; 

Him troubles and him injures nothing, 

Within his breast there whispers something 

Thou didst on earth of evil nothing, 

But of what good is thou didst something; 

And when thou once becom’st here nothing, 
Then hope, hereafter, for thee something. 


■o 


THE ADVANTAGE OE LEARNING. 


From the French of La Fontaine. 

Between two villagers of yore 
Sprang up a lively argument: 

The one was poor, but skilled in lore; 
The other rich, but ignorant. 




THE ADVANTAGE OF LEARNING. 


195 


This one upon his rival sought 
To gain an advantageous hold ; 
Pretending that each wise man ought 
To honor him who had most gold. 

All this was foolish; for why should 
We goods devoid of merit prize? 

“But little reason,” often would 
The rich man say unto the wise, 

“ It seems to me you have, my friend, 

In seeking your whims to defend. 

You think of course that you are able ; 

But say to me, do you keep table ? 

What profits it to such as you 
To read and read incessantly ? 

They’re always pent up in their mew, 

A dark and low third story’s chamber, 
Dressing in June as in December, 

Having for lackey solely 
Their shadow following gloomily. 

How well would the republic thrive 

With men, like you, who naught expend ! 
But those to me seem need’d who strive 
In luxuries much good to spend. 

We make us useful, God it knows ! 

Our pleasure gives employ to those 
That sell, that manufacture, both 
Who make and wear the petticoat, 

And you, for worthless books you wrote 
Receiving from financial lords 

The glittering gold you never loathe, 
Meed of some fond inscriptive words.” 


196 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Such talk filled with impertinence 
Received its well-deserved pay. 

The wise man kept due reticence, 
Though much in turn he had to say. 
But bett than satire could by far 
His cause avenged was by the war. 

The country of our gentlemen 
Was laid in ruin by Mar’s men. 

Both had to leave their village then: 
The ignorant without a home 

Was everywhere reviled and scorned : 
The learned man, where’er he’d come, 
With some new favor was adorned. 
Thus better was their argument 
Decided than words could attain. 

Let hence his talk the foolish vent; 

The wise man his reward will gain. 


K>*- 


RETIREMENT. 


From the French of Chenier. 

A king, I will say more, a sage, 
Declared that all is vanity; 

All, e’en including majesty, 

And, pity! love, life’s happiest wage. 




RETIREMENT. 


197 


A great many have longed to see 
In fangled glory decked their name, 
Eternized in the memory 

Of ages spreading still their fame. 

No doubt, such dream dispels life’s gloom ; 
But when in our last, darksome day 
The torch grows pale and dies away, 
The noise which men make o’er our tomb 
Cannot relieve our fixed doom. 

Happy who, by the world forgot, 

Without disturbance spends 
His time in learning and with friends ! 
Happy who in some lonely spot, 

Truth’s undisputed reign, 

Seeks in some favorite tome to gain 
Not lore, but pleasure’s blissful lot! 

In dreamy youth, when boundless seas 
Bright future to our eyes unveils, 

Man lists the whispering western breeze, 
And hopeful spreads his glistening sails. 
But soon the tempest’s ceaseless shock 
His badly guided vessel chinks; 

Upon the blind reefs of the rock 
She strikes her keel, and shattered sinks. 
Himself his arms securely oar 

To land: his dripping clothes he dries, 
And vowing to the heavens cries 
Forever not to leave the shore. 

18 


TRANSLATIONS. 


In vain th’ illusive gentle breeze 
Entices him with fondling charm ; 
The sea and all its hopes he flees, 

The very waves his soul alarm. 

He will not pass the crowded street, 
Where nothing can his eye allure ; 
His tranquil pleasures for the fleet 
Joys of the world he scorns t’ abjure. 
Less passionate, more sensible, 

He wishes but the shade and breeze, 
The silence of the forest-trees, 

And tone of streamlet peaceable. 

There, when the sun with his last rays 
Has lit the mounts in crimson blaze, 
Beneath the willows of the mead 
The village frisky dance he sees ; 

Is rocked in his sweet reveries 
By the far-sounding tuneful reed ; 

And, as the brooklet smoothly flees, 
His life beholds he calmly speed. 


FORGET ME NOT. 


199 


FORGET ME NOT. 


From the French of De Musset. 

Forget me not, when timorous the morn 
Opes to the sun her palace pleasure-filled; 

Forget me not, when pensive night forlorn 

In dreams glides ’neath her veil with silver trilled. 

At the call of pleasure’s note when thy bosom heaves 
with glee, 

At sweet songs of evening’s hour when the shadows 
call on thee; 

Listen through the forest-trees 
To a voice fanned by the breeze— 

Forget me not. 

Forget me not, when fate unmoved by tears 
Me shall have forced from thee fore’er to part; 

When exile, disappointment, and my years 
Shall have decayed this my despairing heart. 

Think of my distressful love, call to mind my last fare¬ 
well ; 

Not a difference in space or in time true love can tell. 
As long as my heart can beat, 

It shall e’er to thee repeat: 

Forget me not. 


200 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Forget me not, when ’neath the frozen ground 
My broken heart forever lies at rest; 

Forget me not, my gravestone when around 
The lonely flower opes her fragrant breast. 

I no more shall thee behold, but my deathless soul 
shall near 

Thee come often and thee soothe, like a sister true and 
dear. 

In the night’s mysterious still 
Hear a voice lamenting trill— 

Forget me not. 


« 


THE POET. 

From the French of Victor Hugo. 

I. 

Let soar in peace, from world that him not knows, 
Tk’ illustrious suffering with mental throes! 

Due honor on his ills bestow! 

Flee, all ye pleasures vain, his rigid throne ! 

His palm increasing jealous and alone 
Cannot amid your flowers grow. 

Enough of woes he bears, without your joys. 

Each step, to which a way sublime him coys, 

Has been achieved with misery. 




THE POET. 


201 


He weeps his youth before his age is spent, 

His life, a lowly reed, full-laden bent 
With weight of immortality. 

He weeps, fair childhood ! both thy charms and grace, 
The smile that lights, the tear that wets thy face, 

Thy happiness so sweet and wild, 

And, far above, the wing of thy reposes, 

And, ’mid tumultuous joys, thy crown of roses 
That has his fiery brow defiled. 

He blames his age, his poems and his lyre, 

And glory’s cup which, filled with ebrious fire, 

Excites the jealous soul’s regret, 

His vows, fulfilling the dire promise given, 

His heart, the Muse, and all the gifts of heaven, 

Alas l which are not heaven yet I 

II. 

Ah! if at least, couched on the car of life. 

His triumph’s hymn and envy’s roaring strife 
Pass by, not troubling his repose! 

If he could wrnnder on oblivion’s ways, 

Or hide him in his glory, veiled in rays, 

As in the sun an angel glows I 

But e’er he follow must, in vulgar train, 

The wave that spurns and drives him o’er the main. 

Men cross incessantly his ways. 

His grave voice in their idle talk is lost; 

In frivolous sports by foolish pride is tossed 
The sceptre which his right hand sways. 

18 * 


202 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Why from his kingdoms drag so far this king ? 

What if vile atoms to a giant cling ? 

Sons of the world, ’tis you he flies ! 

What to a deathless is your day’s empire ? 

Without his voice, without his tuneful lyre 
Enjoy you not enough of noise? 

III. 

Leave him within his sweet illumined shade ! 

Know you not that the brightening musing Maid 
In secret there his woes delights ? 

And leaving for him her celestial spheres, 

The dove of Christ, and eagle of the Seers, 

There often solaces his nights ? 

His wakeful eye in saintly visions sees 

Suns newly born and spheres on the decrease 
Pass in a crowd ’neath heaven’s dome; 

And following through space th’ angelic choir 

Surveys on distant mounts the strange attire 
Of Nature’s Maker in his hftme. 

See you not from his eyes the bright flames roll ? 

Kuow you not that the veil spread o’er his soul 
Can never unproductive rise? 

With golden sheen and red flames from the roar 

Of hell’s carouse he instantly can soar 
Up to the banquet of the skies. 

Leave then, rash mortals ! far from you alone 

Him, whom the Lord has marked, amid his own. 
With this fair sign of direful doom, 


THE POET. 


203 


Whose eyes see more than e’en the frightened dead 
Of darksome mysteries, repose his head 
Beneath the marble of his tomb! 

IY. 

A day comes, when the Muse herself the charms 
Of his sweet lute with reverent priesthood arms ; 

That to the world blood-drunken sent 
He, curing us of our conceited might, 

May from on high convey to men who slight 
The prayer of th’ Omnipotent. 

A potent spirit fires his wakeful thought; 

And suddenly the lightnings heavenly wrought 
In every word transcendent shine: 

The thronging people prostrate lie around ; ’ 

Sinai mysterious, with thunders crowned 
His brow all glows in fire divine ! 






MISCELLANEOUS. 


(205 




























































' 




















. 

■ 







MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE CONTENDED VASE. 

Near Rheims upon the battle-field 
His conquering arms had gained, 

King Clovis rested on his shield 
With many a foe’s gore stained. 

Still pagan was he, and his heart 
Knew naught of Christ’s meek light; 

Yet loved he always to impart 
To suffering low their right. 

Anon from out the city-gate 
Three messengers there came ; 

Bowed to the king grave and sedate, 
And urged their modest claim : 

“Great king, our holy bishop sends 
Us to entreat of thee 

A favor, which, we know, e’er spends 
Thy heart so willingly. 

(207) 



208 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Our sacred fanes have been defiled 
By ruthless soldiers’ hands ; 

Of all their treasures dear been spoiled, 
The wealth of many lands. 

Yet these we ask not to replace; 

One only gift we crave : 

Yon golden, ornamented vase, 

The Saint of Tours us gave.” 

‘ The king attentive heard their pray’r, 
And instantly replied: 

“ To Soissons come with me; there 
The booty we divide. 

And if by any turn of fate 
I gain the precious vase, 

Then will I from a heart elate 
With joy the gift replace.” 

To Soissons they went; and there 
Beneath the army’s eyes 
Was heaped up all the captured ware, 
And each obtained his prize. 

Then of his soldiers asked the king: 

“ Brave warriors, allot 
Me yonder little precious thing 
Beside my given lot!” 

The noble-minded all agreed : 

“ Great king, all that we see 
Is thine, thy valor’s rightful meed: 

Take whate’er pleases thee !” 


THE CONTENDED VASE. 


209 


But one, a silly, envious man, 

Cried out with all his main : 

“ Naught but thy lotted booty can 
Thy greedy hand obtain !” 

Then lifting up his axe he flung 
It on the golden vase— 

The warriors all were sorely stung 
At such bare-faced disgrace. 

The king alone said not a word, 

His boiling anger waived, 

And on the messengers conferred 
The present they had craved. 

One year had fled, and on the field 
Of Rheims King Clovis stood 

Again, and rested on his shield 
Though now unstained with blood. 

Before him passed in lengthy file 
His brave, victorious host, 

Arrayed in gaudiest martial style, 
Primeval Frankmen’s boast. 

Each warrior he close surveyed, 

And dealt out praise or blame, 

As on or carefully arrayed 
Or slothfully he came. 

See there that man so madly bold, 
Who grudged the golden prize ! 

The king still felt the smart of old ; 
Wrath sparkled in his eyes. 

19 


210 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


“What’s this?” he cried ; “ no other bears 
Such worthless arms as thou : 

Thy sword and axe a field of tares 
Have rooted out, I trow!” 

And snatching from his right the axe: 

“ Lo ! how the golden vase 

Of Soissons I mind, and tax 
Thy grovelling disgrace !” 

Then high the fatal weapon blazed, 

And clove the soldier’s head.— 

The Franks mute and awe-stricken gazed, 
All paly shook with dread. 

Thence not a warrior e’er gainsaid 
The king’s once spoken word ; 

With boundless power thence he swayed 
His fierce, unruly horde. 


DEATH OF SAVONAROLA. 

Before the blazing funeral pyre 
The Tuscan martyr stood. 
Around him with malignant ire 
His foes gasped for his blood. 




DEATH OF SAVONAROLA. 


211 


But ill their glee the high-born pimps 
Of Church and tyrant State 
Hid ’neath the sanctimonious glimpse 
Of pity at his fate. 

His death they long had wished for, urged 
By their own crimes profane, 

Which fearlessly the man had scourged 
On street, in hall and fane; 

Nor less, their hatred to declare, 

By lustful artists’ gold, 

Who strove, oh God! their worshipped fair 
In churches to unfold. 

Yet must their diabolic aims 
In piety’s garb be decked, 

That not their consecrated names 
With murder foul be flecked ; 

That not the good’s indignant rage 
In dreaded power boil, 

And vengefully an after age 

On their soiled tombs recoil. . 

High on his purple-colored throne 
With glittering gold inlaid, 

The bishop of Florentia shone 
In puckered robes arrayed. 

By papal Borgia came he hired 
To slay the saintly man, 

And clothe his murder so desired 
In Church’s awful ban. 


212 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


“Savonarola!” thus lie cried; 

“As heretic I turn 
Thee from our Church’s mother-side, 

That damned thou may’st burn ! 

His priestly garments from him tear, 

Which vilely he profaned ! 

Erase the sacred oil, which e’er 
So recklessly he stained !” 

“ From Church on earth thou may’st me move ’ 
The martyr quick replied; 

“ But never from the Church above, 

Where justly I’ll be tried ! 

Shall I fear him, th’ eternal Judge, 

When for his sake alone 
I’ve ever borne the deadly grudge 
Of lust conspired with throne ?” 

He said, and rushing on the pyre 
Stood fetterless and bold : 

Anon the hissing flames of fire 
Around his body rolled. 

With arms cross-folded on his breast 
He breath’d his spotless soul, 

That swiftly soared to heavenly rest, 

His heart’s perennial goal. 

Deep horror chilled the eyeing crowd : 

The murderers looked pale ; 

The people one-voiced cried aloud: 

“ Oh, saintly martyr, hail!” 


LA CHARB0NN1ERE. 


213 


Whom pope and bishops heedlessly 
A heretic portrayed, 

To him the saints of Italy 
As to a martyr prayed. 


-♦O* 


LA CHARBONNIERE. 

Stranger, if on the greatest 
Of rivers thou shouldst sail, 

Or drifted by the current, 

Or wafted by the gale; 

Pass heedless not yon headland, 
The rarest of the rare ; 

Known to the people round it 
As La Charbonuiere. 

To me known, ah ! far better 
Than any cliff around, 

The islands in the river, 

The lowlands’ marshy ground. 

On that side flows a brooklet 
Into the gulfy stream; 

On this side shaded greenswards 
With smiling violets teem. 

19 * 




214 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Eastward the Mississippi 
His bluffs refulgent laves ; 

Westward on rolling hillocks 
The oaken forest waves. 

Stately the mount arises, 

His front a rocky steep, 

His flanks the sloping woodlands, 
His rear a forest deep. 

But vainly strives all beauty 
Of nature e’er so fair 

To rival the soul’s beauty 
When nursed by godly air. 

I called thee not, oh stranger! 
The wave from to the green, 

Merely to see my headland, 

And drink the charmful scene: 

I wished thee but a moment 
To tread this mountain sod, 

And see how men, thy brethren, 
Like angels serve their God. 

For lo ! here on the hilltop 
A wondrous group recline 

Of youths, whose smiling faces 
With Seraph ardor shine. 

Dressed are they like each other, 
A staff each holds in hand, 

No sign distinction savors, 

A brother heads the band. 


LA CIIARBONNlftRE 


215 


But note the words they utter, 

And list the hymns they sing, 

And mark how heavenly ardor 
Thence courses through the ring! 

They speak of men as brothers, 

Who bear a sainted name, 

Have spread through countless kingdoms 
Their pure undying fame : 

Whose name the Indian blesses 
In vales of Parana, 

On gusty Rocky Mountains, 

In wilds of Ottawa; 

Whom Afric’s fettered children 
Their liberators name ; 

Whom China’s sons of science 
Their teachers wise proclaim ; 

Who on the mounts of 6s6q 
And Io(pia highest soar, 

Who of the starry heavens 
Reflect the brightest lore. 

Then sing they of the Triune, 

Of Mary, mother sweet, 

The Saint of Pampeluna, 

Whom they as father greet. 

And while they thus speak saintly, 

And thus angelic sing, 

Thou fain wouldst think the lauded 
Renewed were in their ring. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


For one the gentle Kostka’s 
Unruffled sweetness beams, 

Another with austerer 

Gonzaga’s pureness gleams. 

Here one on Balde’s pinions 
Soars to Cecilia’s mount, 

Another with Suarez 

Drinks from Catharina’s fount. 

There dreaming of his Indians, 
Of Chinese, Japanese, 

The ardent youth in Xavier 
His noble model sees.— 

But, stranger, now no longer 
I’ll here thy feet detain; 

Come with me to the river, 

I’ll loose thy barge’s chain! 

Glide o’er Missouri’s waters, 

Sail over Ocean’s waves! 

Where mild the wavelet dimples, 
Where rough the billow raves. 

And wheresoever thou sailest, 
And lightest on the strand ; 

Proclaim the heavenly virtues 
Of that young Jesuit band ! 


THE ORPHAN. 


21T 


THE ORPHAN. 

Fast by the rushing river, 

On the dappled green I lay, 

When the woodland songsters warbled 
In the lovely month of May. 

Out of the smoking city, 

From the dust-enshrouded street, 

With quick step had I hurried 
To this rural, sweet retreat. 

Gently wdiere from my forehead 
Feverous with anxious care, 

With his leafy boughs the hemlock 
Kept away the solar glare. 

What were the cares that troubled 
Ere that hour my feverish head ? 

What were the cloud-covered phantoms 
That enveloped me with dread ? 

The orphan asks that wanders 
Over the desolate earth; 

Who bereaved of his kind mother 
Seeks in vain for joyous mirth. 

Whom in his gloomy rambles 
Each sound his mother recalls ; 

Whom atween his midnight slumbers 
The spectre of want appalls. 


218 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


But why beneath that hemlock 
Put to flight my anxious care ? 

Why the phantom cruel of hunger 
At my misery ceased to stare? 

For since that hour no longer 
I tread a desolate wild ; 

With serene peace beams my forehead, 
I’m no more an orphan child. 

Think ye perhaps my mother 

Stepped down on that flowery beach, 

With her lovely face smiled on me, 

And gave me her hand to reach? 

Truly a mother lighted, 

Though she was not whom ye ween : 

Far more beauteous than the earthly, 

And superior like a queen. 

Dimmed were the rays of midsun 
In the splendor of her face ; 

From her eyes beamed heavenly mildness, 
On her lips played bounteous grace. 

Her head inwreathed a crownet 
Refulgent of glittering gold. 

In her hand she held a sceptre 
Of hyacinthian mould. 

Sweetly her smiling liplet 

To these words of love she oped : 

“ Lo ! my son, a truer mother 
Than thou vainly e’er hast hoped ! 


THE ORPHAN. 


219 


Why do grim cares thee trouble, 

And why beats thy heart with fear? 

Cast on me thy cares and terrors, 

Give my words a willing ear! 

I am their dearest mother, 

Who invoke my name with love; 

Who bereaved of th’ earthy parent 
Lift their eyes to me above. 

Mary I am, the mother 

Of the Son of God, who gave 

Me the care of all lamenting 
O’er their mothers’ early grave. 

And now, my child, no longer 
Let thy tears of anguish flow: 

Know thou hast a mother o’er thee 
Far better than e’er below!” 

Thus spake the beauteous lady, 

While my heart leaped with delight; 

Then up to the bluey ether 
She "winged her celestial flight. 

Still by the rushing river 
On the dappled green I lay; 

But the birds more sweetly warbled 
Than on any previous day. 

With rival tongues they carolled, 

As they flittered through the air, 

The heavenly beauties of Mary, 

How sweet she was and how fair. 


220 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


E’er when the sun from hilltop 
On river shoots his first ray, 
There I no longer an orphan 
Spend grateful the first of May 


O*- 


SHEPHERD AND SHEPHERDESS. 

Shepherd. 

Maiden, when I see thee frolic 
On the cliff’s amid the storm, 
Anxiously my bosom flutters 
For thy lithe and tender form. 

Shepherdess. 

Shepherd-youth, when swift the ibex 
Thou pursu’st with reckless leap, 
Chilled with horror my heart shudders 
At the yawning mountain steep. 

Shepherd. 

When upon the flowery greensward 
Lightly skimm’st thou with thy lambs, 
Childlike joy thrills through my bosom, 
Love my lonely spirit balms. 



LAUS CONJUGII. 


221 


Shepherdess. 

When the hungry wolf thou chasest 
Kindly from my threatened fold, 

Scarcely can I hide my blushes, 

Ill conceal my love untold. 

Shepherd. 

Maiden sweet, if I beside thee 
At the Virgin shrine could kneel, 

There the love which burns within us 
With the rapturous vow to seal? 

Shepherdess. 

Dearest youth, ne’er felt I happier 
Than with such thought from above ; 

Deeper glow the maiden blushes, 
Stronger beats my heart with love. 


O*- 


LAUS CONJUGII. 

Hail, wedded love, mysterious law, true source 
Of human offspring!— Milton. 

i 

Cold is the earth, a stony couch of woe ; 

On every side heart-piercing thistles grow: 
Yet in the darksome waste of cheerless cold 
One cheering, brilliant flame my eyes behold ; 

20 




222 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Yet the wide field of sorrow-stinging thorns 
One fair and pleasure-breathing rose adorns ; 

Yet ’tween the couches with sharp stones o’erspread 
I see a soft and comfort-bringing bed. 

Immortal Love ! when first thy pleasing fire 
Thrilled through the veins of mankind’^ happy sire, 
Enraptured gazed he on the consort fair; 

Eke throbbed her breast—first joyed the happiest pair 
Into the living boon of love, the same, 

Still glowing brightly coursed the wonted flame ; 

With pleasing joys necessity combined, 

And lifeless void with non-compliance joined. 

In vain the sanctimonious bachelor 
Affects thy marvellous sweetness to demur: 

His is the lot, untended and alone 
To pass his life a sour and useless drone; 

Smother th’ unquench&d flame of nuptial joy 
With stoic thoughts that eft the holiest cloy. 

Oh rise, conjugial bliss, in all thy charms, 

And dauntless brave the skeptic’s vaunted arms! 

The doughtiest foe shall ’neath thy banner cower, 

The sternest brave confess thy heavenly power! 


LAUS VIRGINIS. 


223 


LAUS VIRGINIS. 


How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot; 

The world forgetting, by the world forgot! —Pope. 


What low contempt must fill the sapient mind, 

To view the follies of the softer kind ! 

See her fair face with poisoned colors swilled, 

The dripping, wound-up hair with saw-dust filled. 
Her grey-browed eye ’neath jetty ridges glows, 

On her pale cheeks blooms an unusual rose, 

Her bluey lips a new vermilion dyes, 

Her rotten teeth a. gold-cased jaw supplies. 

Proudly she struts along the fashion street, 

Where kid-gloved fops the showy gill-flirt greet. 
Her billowy tilter to each wanton gaze 
The snowy freshness of her calves displays. 

Oh God ! and tell my doubting eyes me right: 

Is this a woman flecked to human sight? 

Thanks to the Power that rules the worldly sphere! 
Still virtue breathes and walks the vice-puffed near. 
Lo ! by her side in coarse, black garment dressed 
Th’ angelic nun pursues her kind behest. 

Not for herself, but to the poor’s aid vowed, 

She gently trips atween the worldly crowd. 

No vulgar eye can fix his wanton gaze 
On that fair face, whereon serenely plays 


224 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The heavenly bliss of wedded godly love; 
Unearthly smile, since lives her spouse above. 

No human love-shafts wound her maiden heart; 
Unseeing, unseen she treads the world’s wild mart. 
But when at eve she seeks her lonely bed, 

Celestial beauties circle o’er her head : 

Her Love divine sleeps on her virgin breast, 

And soft caressing lulls her into rest. 

Oh, what to her unruffled peace of mind 
Are all the wild joys of the loving kind ! 

Scarce have we felt the pleasing, ebrious fire, 

And lowly glimmering the flames expire. 

Scarce has love’s triumph eased our weary head, 
And all her promised joys lie withering dead. 

But thou, angelic Love, the vestal’s lot, 

Hast happily solved the long unravelled knot: 
Thine are the pleasures which no time can cloy, 
With thee abides serene and endless joy! 


OUR COUNTRY. 

A JUVENILE EFFORT OF I860. 

Come, Columbian Muse, inspire me 
With thy raptured thoughts and feelings; 
Help me sing my country’s praises, 

Sing her mounts and vales and prairies. 
Crystal lakes and giant rivers, 




OUR COUNTRY. 


225 


Varied climes and dappled verdures, 
Yellow crops and ceaseless products, 
"With her countless herds of cattle, 

And her roaming droves of wild beasts 
Chased in fury by the red man ; 

Come, oh Muse, inspire my feelings ! 

Where the plain Canadian farmer 
Dwells in peace and simple virtue, 

Where the hurrying, broad St. Lawrence 
Ilushes to the rough Atlantic, 

Where the cold lakes of the northland 
Feed with fowl and rice the red man; 
Runs our line, along the ice-fields, 

To the isle of Fort Vancouver 
Bathing in the smooth Pacific. 

’Twixt these giant wastes of waters 
Gently slopes our native country 
To the waves that wash the islands 
First to greet the great Columbus, 

To the rapid Rio Grande 
Rising in the Rocky Mountains, 

To the lofty Cape St. Diego, 

Last of California’s headlands. 

Like sweet guardian angels watching 
O’er the infant’s harmless footsteps, 

Rise aloft, o’er plains and woodlands, 
Towering the snow-crowned mountains. 
Toward the east the Alleghanies, 

Round whose crests the misty vapors 
From the rude Atlantic hover; 

20 * 


22G 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Toward the west the Rocky Mountains, 
Brothers of the mighty Andes, 

Seem to touch the azure heavens 
With their hoarv heads of snow-flakes. 

In their cells and bleak apartments 
Reign the winds and frowning tempests. 
North and south and east and west wflnds 
Rush thence o’er the hills and valleys, 

O’er the ocean’s frightened billows 
Fleeing from the direful tempest, 

Swallowing the vessel’s timbers 
Floating on the angry waters. 

’Neath the mountains’ frowning snow-tops 
Spread the wondrous, billowy prairies, 

With their wild and restless flowers, 

And their waving, scented grasses 
Rolling in the golden sunshine. 

O’er them rove the elk and bison. 

Rove the antelope and musk-ox, 

Rove unbridled herds of horses 
Neighing proudly in their freedom. 

Fierce the red man scours the prairie, 
Rushes toward the droves of bison, 

Toward the deer and toward the horses, 
Kills and captures what he pleases. 

Or the burning rays descending 
From the fiery orb of Gheezis 
Brink his own blood on the wild heath; 

As he meets his deadly foeman, 

Either in the fierce Comanche 
Rushing on his bitless charger 


OUR COUNTRY. 


227 


O’er the southern plains and deserts, 

Or the northern vengeful Blackfoot 
Roving ’neatli the Rocky Mountains, 

By the springs of the Missouri. 

Sweeter are those smiling prairies, 
Blooming ’neath the nursing culture 
Of the simple western farmer. 

Serious wave the yellow wheat-fields, 
Conscious of their vast importance ; 

Lofty rise the bearded cornstalks, 

Envied by the greedy cattle ; 

Lower, toward the tropic regions, 

Grow the softer fruits and products 
’Neath the fierce descending sunshine 
Ceaseless in his potent vigor. 

Rushing through these blooming prairies 
Rolls the mighty Mississippi, 

Greatest of the race of rivers, 

Father of the inland waters. 

From the northern lake, Itasca, 

In the Minnesota woodlands, 

Takes his rise the humble streamlet; 
Stronger meets the clear Wisconsin 
At the famed Galena lead mines; 

Through the Illinois rich lowlands 
Takes their stream of sluggish progress, 

To the western great Missouri, 

Rushing from the Rocky Mountains, 
Brother of his northern waters ; 

And the eastern broad Ohio 


228 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Flowing from the Alleglianies ; 

Meets the ocean’s dark blue billows 
With his tide of muddy yellow, 

Pours his copious floods in torrents 
By three mouths into the ocean, 

Raising high the angry surges ; 

Leaves awhile my native prairies, 

But his ceaseless flood remaineth 
In my country’s flowery bosom. 

Emblem of continued vigor, 

Unity and ceaseless power, 

May thy never-failing waters 
Ever wash our native w r oodlands, 

Ever nurse our blooming prairies, 

Ever bear our laden steamboats ! 

Never let the stranger take thee, 

Never wash his lifeless forests, 

Never nurse his scanty wheat-fields, 

Never bear his tyrant war-boats 
On thy free, unbounded bosom ! 

But roll e’er thy fertile waters 
Through thy free and boundless valley; 
Free as when the red man sailed thee, 

Free as when the Black-Robe blessed thee, 
Free as when De Soto guided 
To the Chickasaw Bluff hailed thee ! 

Call e’er to our dear remembrance 
Our forefathers’ noble struggle 
For our common lasting freedom ! 


THE AMERICAN MAIDEN’S SONG. 


229 


THE AMERICAN MAIDEN’S SONG. 

I am an American maiden ! 

My eyes are bluey and mild, 

My liplets are lovely and rosy, 

My heart is undefiled. 

I am an American maiden! 

With tender warmth at the name 
Of my lovkd country my bosom 
Glows in love’s brightest flame. 

I am an American maiden ! 

In vain love’s enraptured fire 
For the youth that loves not his country 
My breast tries to inspire. 

I am an American maiden ! 

My gentle and bluey eyes, 

My rosy, sweet lips and my pure heart 
The traitor-youth despise. 

I am an American maiden ! 

He only shall be my love, 

Who ’mid the acclaim of rebellion 
His patriot arm shall prove. 

I am an American maiden ! 

More fairly and brightly glow 
My charms, when I love the dear country 
To whom my heart I owe. 


230 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


L’ENNUI. 

Oh, hated goddess, or whate’er thou be, 

Grim Melancholy! why thy sable wing 
Spreads ever gloomy discontent o’er me, 

E’en when of love and fame I gayly sing? 

Is there no home then here below for rest? 

Must every noble-minded effort droop, 

Each generous flame be smothered in the breast, 
Beneath the heart-and-brainless tyrant’s swoop? 

Methouglit in some or other nook on earth 
I could find peace no envy should disturb: 

That joys of love or learning’s lauded worth 
Or faith esteemed the fiery youth should curb. 

Alas! ’twas all an idle dream, naught else! 

Love gave, indeed, of all the best relief; 

But eft hypocrisy the pleasant spells 

Dashed into air, and wrought the more of grief. 

Is learning worth the labors of the mind ? 

Had I a rustic been in lone retreat, 

A thousand tongues had said : “ No youth so kind 
Who now cry out: “ What impudent conceit!” 

Have I.a faith, that faith must live above; 

For here below I’ve sought for it in vain : 

Where sycophants th’ Eternal Truth’s fair Dove 
Have soiled with power’s and lust’s tartarean stain. 


l’ennui. 231 

But I wax wrotli—I well-minded forget 

That such words can me woes unnumbered bring; 

That if I wish me laurels to beget, 

I first must ask my lords what songs to sing. 

Ah ! noble hint!—And should my heart’s best blood 
I have to pour out in the righteous cause, 

Yet would I ope my fearless lips, while stood 
A vestige still of tyranny’s red claws ! 

Too well I know, that even should I strive 
To cater to the thankless despot’s whims, 

Not better should my promised laurels thrive :— 
Where is the man whose sunshine nothing dims ? 

Begone, then, Melancholy! spread no more 
Athwart my lustrous fancy thy black wing! 

Free to Melpomene’s mount will I soar, 

Unhindered there my darling songs to sing! 





LONGER POEMS. 


(233) 


21 





LONGER POEMS. 


THE CAPTIVE OP CHARITY. 


A LEGEND OF ST. TAULINUS OF NOLA. 

This legend is based on the veracious testimony of Gregory 
the Great, who recounts it in his Dialogues (Book III., Ch. I.). 
There is an abundance of discrepancy among commentators on 
this passage, arising from the difficulty of reconciling St. 
Gregory’s narrative with the chronology of history. Accord¬ 
ing to the latter, not the Vandals, but the Goths made a de¬ 
scent into Italy during the closing period of St. Paulinus’ 
life, who died in the year 431, whereas the Vandals did not 
attack Campania before the year 442. All, however, agree 
that there was some bishop of Nola, called Paulinus, who 
voluntarily sold himself to the barbarians for the release of a 
poor widow’s son. Leaving it, therefore, to historic critics to 
settle the discrepancies of chronology, I have put into the form 
of a poem the legend as it is given by St. Gregory himself. 
The fact is indisputable: the heroic deed of love was per¬ 
formed: whichever Paulinus it be, he was the son of that 
Church, which first raised the standard of charity, and has 
never ceased to wave it over suffering human kind. 

Clad in her choicest robe the Pagan Muse 
Had sparkled o’er the earth her brilliant hues; 

The breast of Melesigenes inspired, 

With odes sublime the Theban songster fired, 

. (235) 



236 


LONGER POEMS. 


On Helicon’s bright mount the Mantuan swain 
Taught with Yenusia’s bard her heavenly strain. 

To breathing forms the sculptor’s magic hand 
Had shaped the rocks, and ranged aloDg the strand 
Of Greece and Italy the godly train 
Of heroes watching o’er the land and main. 

From Athens’ walls the People’s Strength had thrown 
The forked lance at Philip’s trembling throne; 

While in proud Rome the Tullian consul hurled 
To dust the traitor’s bloody flag unfurled. 

Fraught with the spoils and slaves of deadly w T ar 
Had rolled ’mid loud Ios the victor’s car. 

On India’s plains the warlike Macedon 
The golden East with reeking sword had won. 

O’er Gallic hordes and Pompey’s valiant bands 

Triumphant, Csesar had with gory hands 

Seized on great Rome, and swayed her world-wide lands. 

Bright shone the face of Muse and Martial Maid, 

In glittering white and flaming red arrayed. 

Joyous the scene to base and selfish mind. 

But sad and black to suffering human kind. 

To rights of hospitality the door 

Oped to the rich, but oped not to the poor. 

His was the lot, unpitied and alone 
To rest his head upon the icy stone; 

Worse than a dog reputed driven from 
The menial board, and e’en denied the crumb; 

Picked up and dragged into the den beneath, 

And flung for food into the lion’s teeth; 

Or worse than death, if hapless young and fair, 

Forced at carouse the master’s lust to share. 


THE CAPTIVE OF CHARITY. 


237 


Coldly the Stoic in feigned sanctity 

Glanced at the wretch, and passed by heartlessly. 

To steel his breast against the suffering throng, 

And own not that which reason told was wrong, 

He lying taught, to pity poor mankind 
Was weakness, and trait of a vulgar mind. 

Thus ruled the cruel, ere the genial Sun 
Of Mercy on the world benighted shone, 

Beamed his fair rays of pity and of love 
On hearts, which misery ne’er before could move, 
Taught them the poor like brothers to receive, 

Soothe their sad hearts, and famished lips relieve ; 
Eternal joys in heaven to him foretold, 

Who in the poor should Christ, his Lord, behold. 
Stunned, shocked, vexed, stung and stupefied 
The world such precept heard, and works of pity eyed : 
Aghast now wondering gazed, then wildly raged, 

Now held her truce, then fiendish battles waged 
Against the ministers of love ; till drunk 
With human gore herself defeated sunk: 

While all the world-wide Roman empire o’er, 

In every peopled land, on every shore 

Waved love’s sweet banner o’er the gladdened poor. 

Once more the earth another Eden seemed, 

And in each hut the star of charity gleamed. 

Yet could the minister of earth’s dread woes 
Not calmly slumber in his forced repose. 

Revolving still within his hellish mind 
The various arts to torture human kind, 

21 * 


238 


LONGER POEMS. 


At last a means he found to glut his ire 
On hated foes with Yandal sword and fire, 

And change the world anew to one vast pyre. 

Nor did the mighty Lord of heaven restrain 
His quivering rage, or check his savage train : 
Willing his children nursed in meekness’ school 
With humble patience the world should rule; 
Perhaps also to scourge the lust and pride 
Of those who revelled in debauch’s tide ; 

But most of all, ’mid scenes of loss and woe 
The gallant virtues of his saints to show: 

Among whom great Paulinas fairly shone, 

The orphan’s father and the widow’s son. 

His lay I wish in simple strains to sing; 

May Seraphs come, and help my lyre to string ! 

O/ a# ■vjL* 

^ ^ ^ 

Bedded on rich Campania’s verdant plains 
The village Nola stretched ’tween peaceful lanes. 

No riot waked the solitary night; 

Naught but calm commerce graced the golden light, 
Or here and there the pilgrim’s pious sight. 

E’en calmer than before the town of late 
Had grown, and risen to a holier state, 

Since thither led devoutly to the shrine 
Of sainted Felix by command divine 
Paulinus scorning consular attire 
Within her walls had chosen his retire, 

To serve that God, whom vainly he had sought 
’Mid earthly cares to worship as he thought. 

In w r orks of love, and fasts and midnight prayer 
His patron’s life he strove to copy there. 


THE CAPTIVE OF CHARITY. 


239 


The people, struck with his great sanctity, 

Hacl loudly called him to their vacant see. 

Capped with the mitre, crosier in hand 
He like a father travelled through the land. 

No step he took, but in his footprint rose 
The smiling lily and the blushing rose : 

Of saintness that the sign, of healthness this, 

With which he robed the land in heavenly bliss. 

No prisoner lone sighed, no criminal groaned, 

No orphan wailed bereft, no widow moaned. 

Gladly the country teemed, but joyous mirth 
Flies swiftly o’er our miserable earth. 

Scarce have we plucked the fruit of longlived care, 
When all our labors vanish into air. 

Scarce has the breeze us cradled to repose, 

When from our couch the hurricane us blows. 

One night—the thought my blood with horror chills— 
A sulphurous flame glared on the neighboring hills: 
Nearer and nearer toward the town it drew, 

Brighter and brighter in its course it grew. 

Now had it reached the walls, when in its glare 
A thousand sabres cleft the trembling air. 

“Death to the Christian dogs!” they barbarous cried ; 
“Oh God ! the Vandals !” low the watchmen sighed. 

“ The Vandals ! Vandals !” through the town it rang 
From death-pale lips and trumpet’s funeral twang. 
Roused from sweet slumber by tumultuous cry, 

The savage yell, and flames upsoaring high, 

Here leaped a fearless warrior to his feet, 

There fled with babe a mother through the street. 
Shouts, screams commingled rent the midnight air; 


240 


LONGER POEMS. 


Reddened the savage cheek in torch’s glare. 

Valiant the village braves the murderous tide 
Checked for awhile inseparate side by side. 

But vainly strove a half-awakened few 
To battle with a fierce and treacherous crew. 
Bravely they forward on the slaughtered sank, 
Happy to hear the captive’s chain not clank. 

For lo ! scarce had death’s angel closed their eyes, 
And winged their souls athwart the liquid skies. 
Than savagely in galling shackles bound 
Their wives and children groaned upon the ground ; 
With many a valorous youth, whose reeking sword 
Had deadly whirled among the barbarous horde; 
With many a tender maid, whose features fair 
Had hapless met the lustful Vandal’s stare. 

Then the shrill trumpet beat the wild retreat, 

Amid the shrieks of severed ne’er to meet. 

Farther and farther from the town the light 
Of horror’s torches lit the quivering night— 

Till thwart the hills it vanished from the sight. 


But where was he amid this scene of woe, 

Whose breast so kindly e’er was wont to glow ? 

Hid he perhaps, or ignominious fled, 

While ’twixt wolves’ teeth his lovkd lambkins bled ? 
Ah ! better knew his flock their trusty lord, 

Who death sought rather than its pangs abhorred. 
Scarce tolled th’ alarum, scarce the shrill horn blew, 
When from his stony couch he succoring flew. 

’Mid crackling flames, atween the crumbling walls 
No danger stops him, and no fear appalls: 


THE CAPTIVE OP CHARITY. 


241 


Into tlie thickest fight he reckless flies, 

Nor held by threats nor checked by savage cries. 
Where’er a babe shrieks wrapped in hissing flames, 
He breasts the ladder and the victim claims. 
Where’er a maiden wrings with helpless hand, 

He leaps between, and checks the ruffian band. 
Where’er a warrior writhes from gaping wound, 

He kneels beside him on the gory ground. 

Where’er he hears an agonizing groan, 

He priestly sanctifies the dying moan. 

When driven on slow moved the sorrowing train 
Of captives shrieking for release in vain, 

He beating with a mother’s bosom flew 
Whither still treasures to be hid he knew; 

Despoiled his house of all its little store, 

The sparkling jewels from his mitre tore; 

Toiling beneath the wealthy burden sped 
To where his children bound in chains were led; 
Poured ’neath the captain’s eyes his goods unrolled, 
And prayed him give his children for his gold. 

The Vandal, though of rude and barbarous mind, 
Could not withstand his words so sad and kind : 
Whom money slavish claimed, he freed of chained ; 
But sterner force from kindlier gifts refrained. 

Joyous for whom he happily had freed, 

Sorrowing for whom he could not with him lead, 

The prelate to his mourning town returned; 

While toward the coast the slaves and slavers turned. 

’Twas morn. The Ruler of the seas and lands 
Had just been offered in the bishop’s hands. 


242 


LONGER POEMS. 


Joined with his prayers the lonely’s mournful sighs 
Had supplicating pierced the heavenly skies. 

Many a burning thank from grateful hearts 
Had whizzed aloft to God like flaming darts. 

Many a blessing on the prelate’s head 
Had breathed a maiden rescued from the dead. • 
The service ended, from the sainted dome 
Each went or sad or glad and sought his home. 

The bishop, too, the last, from prayer rose, 

His heart yet bleeding with his children’s woes. 

In troubled mind he saw the helpless train 
Of sad bereft call for his aid in vain, 

Widows and orphans rear their trembling hands, 
Unable to supply their loved demands. 

And lo ! there—now—scarce had he oped the door, 
And poured his blessing on the crowd before, 

Than rushing through their midst a woman flew 
With hair dishevelled, at his feet her threw, 

Raised her thin arms, and sobbing cried aloud : 

“Oh father, pity me, a woman bowed 

With many a toilsome year, and many a grief ! 

Alas! my only son, my sole relief 

In this wide world, is snatched away from me. 

Already sails he o’er the distant sea. 

Oh help me free him, help, oh father dear; 

Have pity on a widowed mother’s tear!” 

Thus hapless she. Her tears renewed roll, 

And whetted swords of grief transpierce her soul. 
Awhile the Saint in thoughtful silence mused, 

With clouds of woe his weeping eyes suffused : 

His little treasury completely drained, 

No sesterce of his own he knew remained. 


243 


THE CAPTIVE OF CHARITY. 

Toward the blue vault he raised his tearful eye, 
His bosom tortured with the woman’s cry, 

And beckoned light from him who rules on high. 
Lo ! then, as if raised to the blessed’s choir, 

His face shone brilliant with ethereal fire. 

“ Daughter, arise, be comforted !” he spoke ; 

“ I for thy son will bear the slavish yoke. 

Come, let us speed, if yet in time we be, 

To change the slave for him who still is free !” 

In vain the woman and his children all 
His generous resolve strove to recall. 

The noon sun saw him ride the bluey wave, 
Hastening the widow’s son from galling chains to 

Planted by Dido on Numidia’s strand, 

Razed to the ground by Scipio’s vengeful hand 
Fair Carthage still from deadly slumber rose, 
Undaunted by her previous life of woes. 
Conscious as if of ancient rank and fame, 
Struggling as if to gain anew a name, 

She traced her walls along the briny tide, 

And reared her marble domes in regal pride. 
Domes which, alas ! but served the filthy train 
Of softened slaves in Cytherea’s reign. 

For here that senate wise and stern of yore, 
Which made e’en Hannibal quake, ruled no more 
But tyrants nursed in foulness and in blood, 
Carousing e’er in lust and drink and food : 
Roused, it would seem, by cruel fate’s decree 
To waste a country born for misery. 

For scarcely freed of one barbarian horde, 

Than o’er them flashed a more terrific sword; 


save. 




244 


LONGER POEMS. 


Scarcely had one his savage sonl exhaled, 

Than thwart their seas another tyrant sailed; 

Scarcely their princely mansions had they raised, 

Than from their roofs the flames devouring blazed; 
Scarcely the country smiled arrayed in green, 

Than quick it withered ’neatli the warrior’s mien ; 
Scarcely the farmer eyed his golden wheat, 

Than it was threshed beneath the war-steed’s feet. 

Again now rose the often crumbled walls, 

In domes renewed gleamed the festal halls, 

Arrayed in green luxuriant teemed the field, 

The crops uninjured gave their yearly yield; 

Since cruel Genseric with blood-stained sword 
Had o’er the country swept his Vandal horde : 
Resistless had he killed, resistless swayed, 

Resistless yet the land his sons obeyed. 

But men, like they, possessed of fiendish mind, 

Must ever quaff the blood of human kind. 

Can they not suck it from the battle-sword, 

They needs must swill it at the festive board. 

Such fiend was Thrasimund, who now the land 
Submissive still defiled with gory hand. 

Peace ruled apparent o’er the ripening field; 

Without nor flashed the sword, nor beamed the shield. 
But in the prison-vault below the ground 
The many captive groaned unpitied bound, 

And ceaseless struck the axe the deadly wound. 

Nor ’neath the earth alone, but in the street 
The hangman’s sword continual funerals beat. 

And worse than death,—oh diabolic sight, 

Which chills the very heart with dire affright!— 


THE CAPTIVE OF CHARITY. 


245 


Daily upon the slaver’s market sold 
Thousands of fellow-souls for paltry gold ! 

Oh happy me ! who in my native land 

Have lived to see cut twain the last slave’s band, 

His cruel masters meet their bloody fate, 

And human barter made a crime of state ! 

One morn what cry rings through the crowded street? 
Why to yon vessel bend the hurrying feet ? 

Upon the deck a reverend sage appears; 

His white hair tells the snows of seventy years. 

Loudly he calls to lead him to the son 
Of her who has in him another won. 

The master of the captives wondering eyed 
Him whom before, it seemed, he had descried : 

“Art thou not he, who but two days ago 
For thine before me all thy gold didst throw?” 

“ Little it matters who I be,” replied 
He quick ; “ but give that captive by thy side 
To this his mother: him, I pray, set free. 

Take me for him; his shackles chain on me !” 

Amazed the captain stared, amazed the crew; 

Through all the city news so startling flew. 

The happy mother and her happy son 
Yet saw their joy o’ercast with sorrow dun ; 

Opened their lips to check the generous hand, 

But kindred love withheld the kind demand : 

Till the great Saint, in slavery’s garb arrayed, 

Leaped shoreward, and their wavering hearts allayed ; 
Soon in the throng commingled disappeared, 

While homeward they strangely united steered. 


246 


LONGER POEMS. 


Lovely the royal gardens stretched around 
The walls of Carthage on the sea-beat ground. 
Flowers and fruits of every clime and hue 
Blooming and ripening charmed the wondering view. 
No winter chilled the ever-budding rose, 

No boreal blast the mellow orange froze. 

Softly and sweet the warm aerial calm 
Gently diffused the aromatic balm. 

Atween the beds of tropic plants and flowers 
In endless windings crept the trellised bowers ; 
Where sheltered from the white sun’s sickening ray 
The princely lounger whiled his tedious day : 

With languid eye fair nature’s garb surveyed, 
Careless gazed on the slave with toil o’erlaid. 

Nursed from his cradle scenes of cruelty 
Or cold to view or eye with savage glee, 

A beast of burden fettered man him seemed, 

Whose worth proportionate to his work he deemed. 

Yet ’mid that cold and senseless royal kin 
One bore a worthier, nobler soul within, 

A nephew of the king : young, sweet and kind ; 
Whose body fair but robed a fairer mind. 

One summer morn, when walking ’neath the bowers, 
His soul refreshing with the dappled flowers, 

Sudden he stops,- and rests his wondering eye 
On a white-haired bent man, who seems to vie 
With all the rest in labor ceaselessly. 

His lofty forehead, noble air and mien 
Point him out as one not of vulgar kin. 

The hand that now upturns the crumbled sod 
Seems once to have brought priestly gifts to God; 


THE CAPTIVE OP CHARITY. 


24T 


The feet that now scorch in the burning sand 
Seem once to have tracked peace to many a land. 
Friendly the youth, e’er anxious to console 
Each suffering heart, and calm each troubled soul, 
Charmed with the stranger, curious to know 
The history of his excessive woe, 

Called him aside, and gently bade him tell 
The cause whence such sad lot his age befell. 

Gracious the slave him thanked for his kind care : 

“ But mind not me !” he begged; “ only beware 
That in due time thou for thyself provide ; 

For soon shall Thrasimund torn from thy side 
Hence summoned be by fnore than cruel fate: 
Arrange, therefore, in time th’ affairs of state!” 

He said, and calmly to his work repaired; 

While struck with awe the young man thoughtful stared. 
Then as if driven by a threatening gale 
Homeward he leaped, and rang the wondrous tale. 

The king no sooner heard the news appalled, 

Than to his throne the prophet slave he called. 

He steps within, when lo! a deadly fright 
Seizes the prince, the sceptre drops his right, 

White as a funeral sheet his languid cheek 
Turns, and he breaks into a dreadful shriek. 

His kindred crowd in round the golden throne: 

“ Pray, king, what makes thee thus affrighted moan ?” 

“ Oh, woe to me ! alas I eternal woe ! 

Before me stands my heavenly messaged foe !— 

This very man here saw I in a dream, 

The thought of which yet chills my purpled stream. 


248 


LONGER POEMS. 


Amid my judges stern he foremost sate, 

And snapt the thread which spun my prosperous fate. 

‘ Take,’ thus he fiercely with the others cried, 

‘From him the scourge, which long he madly plied I 
Him let it beat, until his soul be fled, 

A just atonement for the hearts he bled 1’ ” 

Thus shrieking wailed the lamentable king; 

Dismay and fear coursed through the courtiers’ ring. 
Then turning toward the slave he asked : “Proclaim 
Dear friend, I pray, thy noble birth and name 1” 

Awhile he modest from own praise refrained ; 

But God’s great glory soon to speak constrained : 

“ I am Paulinus, bishop where of late 
Your soldiers plundered with relentless hate. 

Compelled a widow’s son from chains to save, 

I in his stead became a willing slave.” 

Intense amazement seized the hearts of all; 

Peals of applause rang through the regal hall. 

King Thrasimund arose upon his throne : 

“ My son !” he said ; “ return freed to thine own ! 

And if thou deign to take a gift from me, 

Ask what thou wilt, it shall be given thee!” 

“ Great king !” prayed he; “ naught better can I crave, 
Than that with me thou free each Nolan slave.” 

Mildly the king approval smiled, and straight 
Fell from the Nolans freed the slavish weight.— 

O’er the blue inland sea they joined sailed, 

Toward the green shores no more in mourning veiled, 
To the sweet homes where kindred dear them hailed. 
***** 

Oh sacred Creed, God’s daughter, spouse divine, 
Heroic deeds of charity are thine ! 


THE CAPTIVE OF CHARITY. 


249 


Thine, and no other’s, howsoe’er she strive 
To make love’s blossoms in her bosom thrive ! 

Thou, and no other, canst with godly fire 
To works of love the heart of man inspire : 

Canst teach him seek the babe with want oppressed, 
And soothe its cries upon a mother’s breast: 

On gory fields the tender, beauteous maid 
Canst nerve the dying warrior to aid; 

Kneel by his side upon the blood-drenched ground, 
Calm his sad soul, and dress his gaping wound ! 
Thou solely great Paulinus couldst inspire 
With joy the captive’s shackles to desire ; 

Cast on his withered limbs the young slave’s chain, 
His widowed mother’s sorrow to restrain ! 

In vain all sects exert their utmost care 
Such sons and daughters to the world to bear: 

Thou, Mother Church, alone such fruits canst claim ; 
With thine alone resounds Paulinus’ fame ! 


22* 


250 


LONGER POEMS. 


PHILOMENA; 

OR, 

THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 

FROM THE LATIN OF ST. BONAVENTURE. 

A remarkable trait of this poem in the original is its tender 
simplicity conveyed to the ear in a mellow strain of sonorous 
syllables. Truly, if ever the saintly author merited the sur¬ 
name of Seraphic, this his song alone should give him claim to 
the title. The very angels seem to have strung the lyre to its 
warbling notes. I know not why this poem has been so much 
overlooked by writers prying into the literary mysteries of the 
Middle Ages. Hallam, the indefatigable transcriber, has not 
a word to say about it. The worthy Mone gives it not even a 
place in two volumes of mediaeval poems, in which there is no 
more poetic sentiment or metre than in a code of laws. In 
fact, were you to take the Lord’s Prayer and portion it out 
into lines, placing “Pater Noster” in the first, in the second 
“Qui es in coelis,” and so on, you would have a very fair spe¬ 
cimen of his Lateinische Hymnen des Mittelalters. This is a 
grand mistake. The Philomena can safely be ranked among 
the best Latin poetry of the Middle Ages. It is verily not 
without many faults of prosody. Indeed, I should never at¬ 
tempt to pass it off as a metrical composition. Nor, I am sure, 
has the humble Saint ever thought of such an achievement. 
If Petrarch wrote bad Latin poetry, what better could we ex¬ 
pect of his still more illiterate predecessors ? But the literary 
prerogative of St. Bonaventure’s poem lies in this, that, whereas 
other productions of his age can be read neither as prose nor as 



PHILOMENA. 


251 


verse without grating the ear, in reading his as though it were 
merely prosaic in structure, we are captivated with a most de¬ 
lectable rhythm. This seeming metre I have endeavored to 
retain as much as possible in my meagre English version. As 
to the poetic thought, which is the soul of poetry, it may be 
gathered even from a translation. Yet should I feel much 
more delighted in having the original than my substitute 
read; and for this my lucubration may have been service¬ 
able. 


Pour out thy heart, my Nightingale! 

Thy sweetest carol sing; 

In praises of our Lord thy voice 
Let with my music ring! 

Thou warble him who formed thy frame 
To utter charmful lays; 

I him who saved my soul from death, 

God of us both, will praise. 

Hence lift thy beak, and on the air 
Thy loveliest sonnets wing; 

That hymning with alternate tongue 
A honeyed song we sing! 

St. Rose of Lima. 


I. 

Philomena, messenger 
Of the lovely spring, 

Who us welcom’st with the flight 
Of the wintry king, 

While with softened heart I list 
Tenderly thee sing, 

Hail wise songster, and direct 
Swift to me thy wing ! 


52 


LONGER POEMS. 


II. 

Come, oh come ! I will thee send 
Where I cannot go, 

That my distant friend thou warm 
With thy music’s glow, 

That the sweet tune of thy lyre 
Take away his woe, 

Whom with words of love to greet 
I, alas ! not know. 

III. 

Therefore kindly thou supply 
What is lacked in me, 

Greeting sweetly him I love 
All exclusively; 

And make known to his kind soul, 
How with inner glee 
Beats my heart whenever him 
Happily I see. 

IV. 

Now if one should ask me, why 
Thee of all I chose 
To announce my welcome news ; 

Let him know, there rose 
To my ears the fame, that in 
Thy sweet carols flows 
That peculiar love with which 
Heaven’s Wisdom, glows. 


PHILOMENA. 


253 


Y. 

Therefore, now attentively 
List, mv dearest friend ! 

For if to this birdie’s song 
Zealous thou attend, 

Bi vailing its charmful notes 
With thy spirit blend ; 

It to heavenly music will 
Suddenly thee send. 

YI. 

Of this bird the saying goes 
That, when it espies 
Dismal death approaching it, 

On a tree it flies, 

And in earliest morn its beak 
Lifts up to the skies, 

Whence the varied canticles 
Streaming upward rise. 

YII. 

Its melodious strains it rings 
Ere aurora’s gleam ; 

But when at the day’s first hour 
Darts the sunny beam, 

Alway sweeter up the air 
Notes harmonious stream, 
While without delay or rest 
Newer ballads teem. 


254 


LONGER POEMS. 


VIII. 

And about the third hour, when 
It no measure knows, 

Since the gladness of its heart 
Ever greater grows, 

Nearly breaks its little throat, 
So its music flows, 

And the higher soars its tune, 
Fierier it glows. 


IX. 

But when on his mid-day throne 
Fierce the white sun glares, 

Then it through excessive heat 
Its own bowels tears. 

“ Oci, oci!” cries it out 
In its usual airs ; 

Till worn out with struggling voice 
Senselessly it stares. 

X. 

Thus the organ being broke 
Of this Philomene, 

While the beak still quivereth 
Paly turns its mien ; 

But the ninth hour being reached, 
When the ruddy sheen 

Fly the ruptured veins, it drops 
Lifeless on the green. 


PHILOMENA. 


255 


XT. 

Now, my clearest friend, behold ! 

Briefly thou hast heard 
«/ 

What the simple legend says 
Of this wondrous bird. 

But, as I have said before, 

Be it not unheard, 

That song us mysterious minds 
Of Christ’s holy word. 

XII. 

For, as I it understand, 
Philomena shows 
Us a soul in virtues robed, 

That with God’s love glows, 
Who, while to her upward mind 
Patrial realms disclose, 

From her inner depths a song 
Clear and lovely flows. 

XIII. 

Her religious confidence 
Higher still to raise, 

It one day was shown to her 
In mysterious lays, 

How the benefits we reap 
Through God’s fixed ways 
To our eyes each sacred hour 
Of the day portrays. 


256 


LONGER POEMS. 


XIV. 

Morning or the earliest dawn 
Is man’s infant state, 

In which God his wondrous hand 
Raised him to create. 

First hour shows God new-born come 
Man to renovate, 

And the third, how in our midst 
He as teacher sate. 

XV. 

Sixth hour by his treacherous 
People he was bound, 

Beat with scourges, spit upon, 
Dragged along the ground ; 

To the cross his limbs the nails 
Fixed with cruel sound, 

While his sacred head with thorns 
Mockingly was crowned. 

XVI. 

Call it ninth, when having shed 
All his blood he dies, 

When his last forgiving prayer 
Has transpierced the skies, 

And the devil fraught with rage 
And confusion flies; 

Vespers, last, when in the grave 
Christ’s sweet body lies. 


PIIILOMENA. 


257 


XVII. 

Meditating in her bowers 
Soul that mystic day 
Makes the tragic terminus 
Of her earthly stay, 

Climbing on the cross, whereon 
Christ with lion sway, 

Having brok’n the gates of death, 
Crushed the foe’s array. 

XVIII. 

Instantly the melodies 
Of her heart she swells ; 

From the earliest streak of day 
Silver-toned she knells. 
Glorifying with her song 
Him, who o’er her dwells, 

First, how wondrously his hand 
Framed her form, she tells. 

XIX. 

“ Good Creator,” sings she, “ who 
Hast my body framed, 

How great is thy kindness thou 
Fully hast proclaimed; 

For without my least desert, 

At which ne’er I aimed, 

Me the partner of thy bliss 
Loving thou hast named. 

23 


253 


LONGER POEMS 


XX. 

Oh, how wondrously my soul 
Shone with dignity, 

When the image of my God 
First was stamped on me ! 

But that honor greater still 
In me thou sliouldst see, 

Had I disobedient not 
Madly turned from thee. 

XXI. 

For thou, charity supreme ! 

Me, though wandering here, 

Didst desire in bands of love 
Close to thee t’ adhere, 

And as to my homestead sweet 
To thy realms draw near, 

Where thou wouldst me nurse and teach 
As thy daughter dear. 


XXII. 

Since thou hast it so ordained, 
My name to enroll 
In thy heavenly choirs, and give 
To my heart thee whole ; 

What for this can from my heart 
I in turn unroll, 

Save that I henceforth thee love 
With my inmost soul! 


PHILOMENA. 


259 


XXIII. 

Sweetest morsel in my mouth, 
Sole love of my heart! 

Who into the breasts thee love 
Wing’st thy saving dart; 

With all that I have or am 
Gladly will I part, 

And as a deposit lay 
In thy heavenly mart.” 

XXIY. 

“ Oci,” such a heart bursts forth 
In unbounded strain, 

Singing, how the creature ought 
With its strongest main 

Such a Maker love with heart 
Innocent of stain ; 

Since it has enjoyed so long 
His paternal reign. 

XXY. 

Thus the mind the earliest dawn 
Meditating spends; 

But as soon as beams the day 
Out her voice she sends ; 

That accepted time to kind 
Contemplation lends, 

When the Lord in flesh concealed 
Earthward saving bends. 


2G0 


LONGER POEMS. 


XXVI. 

Then the soul to pity moved 
All with love distills, 

Anxiously considering 
Him, who heaven fills, 

As a tender babe, down whose 
Cheek the tearlet rills, 

Wishing our sick souls to cure 
Of their long-lived ills. 

XXVII. 

Weeping therefore she exclaims : 

“ Oh, thou fount of love, 

Who to deck thee with the poor’s 
Tatters could thee move ? 

Who advised thee for our sakes 
Gratis ’mid us hove ? 

None but that warm love which thou 
Hrewest from above. 

XXVIII. 

Truly we as burning zeal 
This bright ardor sound, 

Under whose dominion 
Heaven’s king is found, 

With whose sacred fetters he 
Captured was and bound, 

When he in the swaddling-bands 
Of the babe was wound. 


PIIILOMENA. 


261 


XXIX. 

Oh thou sweet and lovelv babe ! 

Oh unrivalled boy! 

Happy who around thy neck 
Could his arms deploy, 

Could thy feet and thy hands kiss, 
Thee lamenting joy, 

And in thy sweet servitude 
Always him employ! 

XXX. 

Ah me ! that it was not given 
Me him to caress, 

And the weeping child’s laments 
With my tears redress, 

His milk-white and tender limbs 
On my bosom press, 

And aside his cradle e’er 
Him my love confess ! 

XXXI. 

Aye, I think, the good boy me 
Would not have repelled ; 
Rather with his infant smile 
Me to him have held, 

With his tears me to restrain 
My tears have compelled, 

And my mountain tree of guilt 
Kindly would have felled. 

23 * 


/ 


262 


LONGER POEMS. 

XXXII. 

Happy he who in those days 
Could with prayers obtain 
So to serve that wonderful 
Mother without stain, 
That but once within a day 
She would kindly deign 
Him to kiss her lovely boy 
And for playmate gain ! 


Oh, how gladly I the bath 
Would for him prepare, 

On my shoulders joyously 
Would the water bear, 

Cheerly thus would minister 
To the Virgin fair, 

And her infant’s swaddling-clothes 
Wash with tender care 1” 

XXXIV. 

Thus when moved the pious soul 
Thirsts for poverty, 

Longs to use the coarsest food, 
Dress her meagerly; 

Labor is with her exchanged 
To jucundity, 

And the beauty of this world 
She calls vility. 


PHILOMENA. 


263 


XXXY. 

Thus she the infantile years 
Of Christ childlike strings ; 

While the first hour’s minutes flv 

V 

Without rest she sings. 

Thence her charmful notes unto 
Day’s third hour she wings, 
Musing on the teaching Lord’s 
Countless sufferings. 

XXXYI. 

* 

Then his labors and his toils 
She with tears recalls, 

Hunger, thirst, cold, heat and sweat, 
All which him befalls 
In his struggles to release 
Men from sinful thralls, 

And while to a better life 
He them wretched calls. 

XXXYII. 

Brightly glows this blessed bird 
In love’s sacred fires ; 

“ Oci, oci” to exclaim 
Love her lips inspires. 

To the world’s broad way of vice 
She to die desires, 

Where her tender pureness e’er 
With gross vileness tires. 


264 


LONGER POEMS. 


XXXVIII. 

Hence she cries : “ Oh Lord, whose word 
Rigidness controls, 

To the banished points a home, 

With the poor condoles, 

And the sinner sorrowing 
For his guilt consoles, 

After whom ought bend their way 
Just and sinful souls ! 

XXXIX. 

For to just thou art life’s rule 
Wisely framed to win, 

To the sinners mirror and 
Wondrous discipline, 

To the wearied and the weak 
Soothing balm within, 

To the sick and languishing 
Powerful medicine. 

XL. 

Thou to charity’s bright school 
First here gayest ground, 

Teaching that to honor God 
All things must redound, 

That we must shake from our souls 
This world’s heavy mound, 

And that thus again our lost 
Garment can be found. 


PHILOMENA. 


265 


XLI. 

But the thoughtless world this school 
Foolishly contemned, 

Scornfully its heavenly growth 
Persecuting stemmed; 

But thy goodness them in turn 
Wrathfully not hemmed, 

Nor the sinner penitent 
To the flames condemned. 

XLII. 

For thy manner ’tis, that thou 
Low and needy rear, 

Wishing that we come to thee 
More with love than fear, 

That we not thy scourges dread, 

Nor thy words austere, 

But thee as our teacher kind 
With loved hearts revere. 

XLIIT. 

She, who in adultery 
Was surprised, knew hence 
How to penitents thy kind 
Mercy was immense*; 

Magdalen perceived this, when 
Her so great offence 
Was forgiven, and she felt 
Virtue’s recompense. 


266 


LONGER POEMS. 


XLIY. 

But how can I all relate, 

Who, before depraved, 

Followed his celestial word, 

Of their vices laved 
Were endowed with virtue’s strength, 
That all sin they waived, 

And from their invidious foe’s 
Stratagems were saved ? 

XLY. 

Happy to whom under such 
Teacher it was given, 

Always to employ him, and 
Honeyed juice of heaven 
From his lips suck, whence he loathed 
Every worldly leaven. 

And the filthy stench of sin 
From his soul was driven !” 

XLYI. 

These and many other things 
While the mind revolves, 

To return her hearty thanks 
She her liplet solves, 

God to praise she more her soul 
In love’s flames involves, 

Till the third hour’s canticle 
Into air resolves. 


PHILOMENA. 


26T 


XLYII. 

At the sixth hour sad the soul 
“ Oci, oci” cries, 

Mingling with her frequent tears 
Her melodious sighs; 

While her notes of thanks and praise 
Mount the liquid skies, 

And to Christ, who bore so much 
For us sinners, rise. 

XLYIII. 

In this hour the musing soul 
Drunk with ardor seems ; 

But at mid-day, when the sun 
Shoots his hottest beams, 

As with love’s unquenched fires 
More and more she gleams, 

With her tenderest notes she sings 
Him who us redeems. 

XLIX. 

Weeping hence she listens to 
This lamb’s bleating sound, 

Sees it tender, free of spot, 

With thorns cruel crowned, 

Blue from scourging, and with nails 
To the hard cross bound, 

And the blessed body spread 
With one ghastly wound. 


268 


LONGER POEMS. 


L. 

Then in grief the pious mind 
“ Oci” wailing cries : 

“ Oci, oci, wretched me ! 

Whom forever spies 
His wan, pallid countenance, 

As he painful dies, 

And whose inmost soul transpierce 
His dim, broken eyes. 

LI. 

Thus”—she asks—“ did it become 
Thee, the lamb benign, 

To endure a death so cruel, 

Of thee so indign ? 

But thus thou resolved hadst to 
Conquer the malign, 

And all this was done by thee 
In thy great love’s sign. 

LII. 

Sign of thy love is it, when, 

As thou clearly show’st, 

Thou unit’st the last with first, 
Highest with the low’st; 

Dying thus thou prov’st that us 
Thou of all lov’st most, 

When for us the purpled streams 
Of thy heart thou flow’st. 


PHILOMENA. 


269 


liii. 

• # 

Thou to us a new friend art, 

Thou art the new must; 

Thus the wise man calleth thee, 
And it is but just; 

For thou art a son entire, 
Rendering sweet our gust, 

Shattering thy flesh’s vase, 
Though the most venust. 

L1V. 

Let the penitent by signs 
So great taught believe, 

That Christ heartfelt doth himself 
Wholly to him give. 

These signs I’ll to me recall, 

Lest me Satan grieve; 

For none like they of his rage 
Our shy hearts bereave. 

LV. 

Thinking on these signs a new 
“ Oci” fills my strain ; 

Jesus sweet! that I love not 
More thee, I complain ; 

Yet desire I to be told 
In thy scholar train, 

As for me thou hast been bound 
In love’s hardest chain. 

24 


270 


LONGER POEMS. 


LYI. 

What great angle charity 
Offered to thy sight, 

When to die for wretched man 
It could thee incite ! 

Though, indeed, a luscious bait 
Hid the angle’s fright, 

Which thee to the gain of souls 
Sweetly did invite. 

LYII. 

True, to thee the angle’s point 
Not concealed lay; 

But its cruel, mortal sting 
Kept thee not away; 

Rather pleased it to alight 
On its fork’d array, 

Since the bait alluring led 
Willing thee astray. 

LYIII. 

Hence for me wretch, of whom thou 
With so much love though test, 
Its acute and deadly point 
Knowingly thou soughtest, 

When thou thee a victim pure 
To thy Father broughtest, 

And within thy sacred blood 
Clean of sin me wroughtest. 


PHILOMENA. 


LIX. 

Who will then still wonder, if 
I for thee suspire, 

Joined unmerited to a 
Man of godly fire? 

For he in a wondrous way 
Fosters my desire, 

Finishing for me his life 
In an end so dire. 

LX. 

But I ought not merely thus 
Sorrowing me bear, 

Rather, after sainted Job, 

My fair ringlets tear, 

In the cavern of thy side 
Me a nest prepare, 

And there, having run my course, 
Breathe my final air. 

LXI. 

Truly, if I not with thee 
Die, I will not rest; 

“ Oci, oci” with my voice 
E’er I will attest, 

That with my desire I am 
E’er for thee in guest, 
Howsoever me as vile 
Hence the world detest!” 


LONGER POEMS. 


LXII. 

As if senseless then she cries : 

“ Come, ye cruel kind ! 

To the cross of Christ, my love, 
Me, soul wretched, bind ; 
Since no other death so sweet 
As this one I find, 

When I dying mine own arms 
Bound his neck can wind. 

LXIII. 

Yerily not otherwise 
Can my sorrow’s pain, 

Which each hour asunder cuts 
My heart’s vital vein, 

Soothed be, except that thou, 
Sweetness’s great main, 

As physician come to me, 

And my grief restrain. 

LXIY. 

Surely a physician 

Mild and sweet thou art, 

Who with gentle force remov’st 
Vices from the heart; 

That joined firmly to thee, e’er 
We take thy loved part, 

And anointed with thy gifts 
Miss sin’s poisoned smart. 


PHILOMENA. 


2Y3 


LXV. 

Oh, how damnably this world 
Can in blindness hide, 

That, when wounding it the foes 
Drunk with slaughter chide, 
This physician prepared 
Still it thrusts aside, 

And refuses to escape 
Into his sweet side! 

LX VI. 

Why, alas ! the benefits 
Of Christ’s deadly fall 
Thou wilt not, oh blinded man ! 

Thankfully recall ? 

Through which he has broken thy 
Hateful tyrant’s thrall, 

And enriched thy soul with the 
Greatest goods of all. 

LXVII. 

Languishing thee nourished he 
With his body’s food, 

Thee unmerited he bathed 
In his sacred blood ; 

Lastly his sweet heart he oped 
Thee with mixed flood, 

That to thee he thus might show 

All his lovelihood. 

24* 


214 


LONGER POEMS. 


LXVIII. 

Oh what a refreshing bath, 

Food how savory, 

Which to worthy souls becomes 
Paradise’s key! 

He, whom thou refreshest, bears 
All toil easily, 

Though to hearts in sloth immersed 
Thou fastidious be. 

LXIX. 

For these slothful hearts to men 
Least of all disclose 
For what end our Saviour 
His best heart us shows ; 

Nor think they, when scarce they view 
Him outstretched in woes, 

That in place of softer couch 
He that cross him chose.” 

LXX. 

I 

This hard bed, the more it is 
Shown to pious minds, 

It more firmly to itself 
Their devotion binds, 

As the hawk his gory bill 
Lusciously grinds, 

When upon the bleeding corse 
He returning winds. 


PHILOMENA. 


215 


LXXL 

After this the soul exclaims 
With phrenetic sound : 

“ Oh dear couch, oh bleeding flesh, 
For me dragged around 
Through so many torments, why 
Did they me not wound 
With thee ? and why was I not 
Dying with thee bound ? 

LXXII. 

Yet, since to my wretched soul 
I must this deny, 

For me a new suffering 
I in turn will try: 

Wailing, namely, and in tears 
Ceaseless will I sigh, 

Till from this sad home of earth 
Heavenward I fly.” 


LXXIII. 

After this the sweet soul’s loves 
More and more increase; 
Though her senses’ power and 
Body’s strength decrease, 
And no word she utters, yet 
Her desires not cease, 

And athwart her languid form 
Spreads a heavenly peace. 


276 


LONGER POEMS. 


LXXIY. 

Hence the organ being brok’n 
Of her little throat, 

With her tongue still quivering, 
Yoid of every note, 

She with pious tears, that more 
Than all words denote, 

From her wounded breast laments 
Whom her sins thus smote. 

LXXY. 

Therefore to her languishing 
Naught so sweet appears 
As to greet her loved Lord 
With her sighs and tears ; 
Ceaselessly her dimmish eyes 
Fixedly she rears 
To his wounds and flaming heart 
Oped with cruel spears. 


LXXYI. 

So she stares, and so her mind 
Breathes continual sighs, 

As if he bent over her 
Who for her love dies ; 

Not a moment from the cross 
She retracts her eyes, 

Since him whom she loves so much 
She thereon descries. 


PIIILOMENA. 


211 


LXXYII. 

Longing sighs and doleful wails, 

Tears and loud lament 
Are to her delicious, 

Serve as aliment; 

Which in her a martyrdom 
New in kind invent, 

And to it like pangs of yore 
Give their increment. 

LXXYIII. 

In this state whate’er of earth 
Savors she defies, 

And the solace of the world 
She as poison flies : 

Till, when clicks the day’s ninth hour, 
Totally she dies, 

When the impetus of love 
Breaks her flesh’s ties. 

t 

# 

LXXIX. 

For recalling how her Lord 
At the ninth hour cried : 

“ It is consummated,” and 
Thus exclaiming died, 

Dying, as if e’en in death 
To her God allied, 

She sends forth the same word, which 
Tears her burning side. 


278 


LONGER POEMS. 


LXXX. 

• 

This last valiant lance’s stroke 
Bursts her earthly ties ; 

Dead she falls, as it was said, 

But with joy she dies ; 

For at once the heaven’s gate 
To her open flies, 

That her place she may obtain 
In the sainted skies. 

LXXXI. 

For such soul a Requiem 
Mass we do not sing; 

Nay, but let the Mass’ introit 
“ Gaudeamus” ring; 

Since, if for a martyr we 
To God prayers wing, 

On his holy name, ’tis writ, 

We but slightness fling. 

LXXXII. 

Hail, thou sweet and precious soul, 
Lovely flower, hail! 

Beauteous and sparkling gem, 

Lily of the vale ! 

Who the foulness of the flesh 
Wilt no more inhale, 

Happy is the death, which frees 
Thee from this world’s bale ! 


PHILOMENA. 


2T9 


LXXXIII. 

Happy, who enjoyest now 
Thy desired rest, 

Whose sleep in thy spouse’s arms 
None can more molest, 

To whose spirit in love’s bands 
Firmly thou art pressed, 

And with whose mellifluous kiss 
Thou art alway blest! 

LXXXIY. 

Now from thy dried eyes the tears ’ 

Flood no longer rolls; 

For thou clearly seest the fruits 
Of all hopeful souls, 

Since he, who has saved thee from 
This world’s siren shoals, 

In his kisses and embrace 
Thy deep griefs consoles. 

LXXXY. 

Speak, speak, sweet soul, why should down 
Thy cheeks still roll tears ? 

Having heaven’s joy with thee, 

Why oppress thee fears ? 

For to him alone of all 
Thy loved heart adheres ; 

And to higher love than his 
No ambition rears. 


280 


LONGER POEMS. 


LXXXVI 

But I here my song end, lest 
I be tedious; 

For if I wished to relate 
ow delicious 

Is this last state of the soul, 

And how glorious, 

I a liar might be called 
By malicious. 

LXXXVIII. 

But whatever, brother dear, 
Others thence may say, 

Willing thou this martyr new 
In thyself portray; 

And when this thou hast attained, 
Humbly thy Lord pray, 

That eke thee he teach to sing 
Such a martyr-lay. 

LXXXVIII. 

Pious sister, let us this 
Canticle oft sing, 

Lest with tediousness we fall 
In life’s journeying; 

For the soul, that joyous lists 
This melodious ring, 

Shall to Mary and her Son 
Freed her spirit wing. 


PHILOMENA. 


281 


LXXXTX. 

Hence let, sister, such a song 
Thy heart harmonize; 

Bathe in tears thee, and in grief 
Thyself martyrize; 

So to Christ with all thy strength 
Now thee organize— 

That with Christ hereafter e’er 
Feasts thou solemnize. 

XC. 

Then shall cease the sighs and groans 
Of thine elegy, 

When to choirs angelic thou 
Shalt united be: 

Singing thou shalt pass into 
Heavenly symphony, 

Wedded happiest to the king 
Of eternity! 


25 


282 


LONGER POEMS. 


THE SAINTED GIANT; 

OR, 


THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER. 

Tite substance of this legend, as laid down in the following 
poem, is taken mainly from the narrative of Jacobus de Vora- 
gine in his “ Legenda Aurea;” as also from the tradition extant 
of the Saint among the people of Germany, with whom he is a 
great patron, and from whose lips I have frequently heard re¬ 
lated the tale as it is recounted in the sequent pages. That the 
Saint bore the name of Adocymos or Reprobus prior to that of 
Christopher, is asserted in Binder’s Conversational Lexicon, 
Article St. Christopher. Butler in his “Lives of the Saints’’ 
is of opinion that the story of the Saint’s great stature, and of 
his carrying the Divine Infant across the river, is a mere vulgar 
notion, and owes its origin to allegorical representations of the 
sufferings, which the Martyr underwent for the love of Christ. 
In support of his explanation he quotes Baronius, and the fol¬ 
lowing epigram from Vida: 

“ Christophore, infixum quod eum usque in corde gerebas, 

Pictures Christum dant tibi ferre liumeris.” 

Hym. 26, t. 2, p. 150. 

My candid opinion is, that the hagiographer is greatly mis¬ 
taken. The Saint manifested not a more ardent love, and 
suffered not a more excruciating toriture, as we learn from the 
Roman Martyrology, than thousands of martyrs exhibited and 
underwent, without however obtaining thence so honored a 
name as that of Christ-Bearer. There appears not the slight- 


THE SAINTED GIANT. 


283 


est ground for contradicting the tradition of a thousand centu¬ 
ries, held up by a simple and devout people; and only a cold 
critic will contemptuously pass over a pious legend, and have 
recourse to an allegorical interpretation. 


1 . 

Where lost amid the murky clouds 

The Alpine mountains rear their snowy crests, 

Athwart the boundless upward scene 
A deep and solemn melancholy rests; 

The Adda ’twixt the jutting crags 
Impatient his hurrying waters wheels, 

Or tumbling o’er the crumbling rocks 
Below in widely foaming circles reels ; 

His southern bank a forest wild 

Of aged oaks and evergreens enshrouds, 

His northern bank the mountain steep 

With dread and chilling terror overclouds : 

There in the dismal days of yore, 

When lawless tyrants seized with gory hand 

Th’ imperial crown, and tiger-like 

Scoured preying o’er the world-wide Roman land, 

Between the olden fir-trees stood 

A cottage small and poor, but neat and clean; 

A little window gave it light; 

The thatch kept out the rain and sunny sheen. 


284 


LONGER POEMS. 


Within a hermit bent with age 

Had fixed his holy and retired abode: 

Twice forty winters on his high 

And wrinkled forehead long-lived penance show r ed. 

And now the ruddy western sun 

The highest tree-tops fringed with golden ray, 

When from the river’s rugged bank 
A man unto the cottage bent his way. 

Of giant size and strength he was, 

And dusky hue, and dark and threatsome look; 
mountain tree he used for staff, 

And as he moved the ground beneath him shook. 

His noisome tread the hermit roused, 

As on his knees he breathed his evening prayer. 

He oped the door, suspecting naught— 

When sudden back he sprang with frightened stare. 

Awhile he thus ; but soon his fears 

The rough yet kindly stranger voice assuaged : 

“ Why fear’st thou me, a man like thee, 

Who ne’er against the harmless battle w r aged ?” 

“If such thou be—a friendly guest”— 

The hermit freed of terror quick rejoiued ; 

“ Take thee whate’er my loving heart 

Can for a stranger good and wholesome find. 

Seat thee a moment ’neath this fir, 

While I thee serve a strengthening repast: 

Then spend in quiet slumber here 

The night, which on the forest gathers fast.” 


THE SAINTED GIANT. 


285 


Thus he with hospitable grace. 

To whom the giant stranger answer made: 

“ Thy goodness bids me take the gift, 

And tarry where kind fate my steps has stayed. 

But when the strengthening food and drink 
Have nursed my body and relieved my mind, 
Then let me tell my history, 

And what my steps to thine abode inclined.” 

/ 

The other smiled benign assent. 

With social heart they took their plain regale; 
Then seated by the hermit’s side 

The stranger thus began his wondrous tale : 

II. 

“ Far from the cultured homes of civil men, 

Among the steppes of barbarous Scythia, 

My roving parents brought me into life. 

Adocymos they called me from the name 
Of a renowned Greek chieftain, who had led 
Our wandering tribes to many victories. 

Joyous my childhood passed amid the sports 
Of children trained from earliest infancy 
In all the stratagems of savage war : 

And easily each rival I surpassed ; 

For even then my stalwart size me made 
A Hercules among the puny boys. 

Still think with pride I of the happy hour, 

When at the public youthy tournament 

The chieftain decked my brow with laurelled green, 

Because the first of prizes I had won. 

25* 


286 


LONGER POEMS. 


Swift rolled the years of youth ’mid warlike feats, 
When—I just then had reached my twentieth year— 
A Roman questor sought of us recruits. 

In glowing terms he praised his emperor, 

Who, both the king of earth and god of heaven, 

The whole world guided with his mighty hand. 

His words, by others scarcely heeded, fired 
A strange desire within my warlike breast. 

I longed to serve him who, the mightiest, 

With strength superior all men o’erawed. 

For as I wished, that in my homely tribe 
Tlie others, whom I easily outshone, 

Should tender me their humble servitude, 

So I no more than rightful held it, that 
Myself should serve a powerfuller lord; 

And if there were such as no equal owned 
In all the netherworld and earth and sky, 

Him should I gift with all my services. 

Thus candidly I spake my mind unto 
The questor, and on this condition sole 
My sword I proffered in the coming war. 

Of course he gladly took my curious oath, 

• Not doubting that he thus forever had 
My giant labors for his lord secured. 

A few days’ march brought us to Lycia, 

Where then the Roman legions lay encamped. 
Amazement filled the hearts of all, when first 
The ten-elled giant met their wondering eye. 

But when they saw, that softer nature had 
Alliance formed with such a barbarous mould; 


THE SAINTED GIANT. 


287 


That ’neath the rough-haired breast a noble heart 
Beat big with every gentle sympathy: 

They gradually neared with friendly mien, 

And found as good a friend as warrior strong, 
Who both could win their hearts with gentle love, 
And aid them in their strifes with valiant force. 
And thus a friendship ’tween ourselves arose, 
Which rooted deeper as the years rolled by. 

In Lycia we did not long remain ; 

For soon unto the border we were called, 

• ' 

To war against th’ unruly Parthians, 

Who bolder grew from later victories. 

Thence, as I shone superior in the field, 

My warlike fame the Imperator reached, 

Who straightway summoned me unto his court. 
With pleasure he my noble frame surveyed ; 

My fearless words spoke friendly to his heart. 

No better body-guard than me he thought, 

To parry with success th’ assassin’s blows, 

Who then in frequent numbers hovered nigh. 

Nor did he see awry; for, while I stayed 

Beside his person, not a vulgar hand 

The murderous weapon ever durst unsheathe. 

Howe’er not long my valorous arm he owned: 

A curious turn of fate set us apart. 

One day, as through the forest we pursued 
The fleeting game, a wondrous rider crossed 
Our path. Black was his horse, his dress, his hue, 
And like two coals of fire his eyeballs glared. 


288 


LONGER POEMS. 


The emperor nigh fainted with affright; 

His quivering hand let fall the slackened rein. 
‘What, Maximinus ! thou, the emperor! 

Shrink’st like a woman from a single man ?’ 

Thus I almost contemptuously. To whom 
He trembling like a wind-tossed reed replied: 

‘ Know, this one’s far more powerful than we; 

Him we adore, the potent king of hell.’ 

‘ If that’s the case,’ I bitterly made word, 

‘ I can no longer serve thee, tiny prince! 

The greatest only can my master be. 

Halloo ! black rider, potent king of hell, 

Thee will I serve, till I a mightier find!’ 

The swarthy rider grinned a hellish smile, 

And bade me follow him into the woods; 

While toward the city sped the emperor 
Humbled and stung and foaming in his rage. 

Naught but a curious, philosophic mind 
Could make me follow blindly thus my guide. 

His honeyed words lost every sense of sweet, 

When ’twixt the whitish teeth the reddish tongue 
Them snake-like hissed, while all his face was black, 
Black as a coal, and hideous like an ape’s. 

His promises like insults seemed to me, 

His boasted realms the nighted wastes of hell. 

How gladly hence I felt, when soon of this 
Dire monster I was fatedly relieved ! 

Scarce five miles had we furious onward sped, 
When, as if driven back, his courser gave 
A sudden backward bound, and livid grew 
The rider’s lips, and frightened stared his eyes. 


THE SAINTED GIANT. 


289 


‘ "W hat's this ?’ I cried; ‘ art thou, too, scared, my king ? 
Nothing around I see, that could thee fright.’ 

‘That cross,’ he yelled, ‘that cross I cannot bear: 

It tortures me, when I but look at it!’ 

And instantly he turned and dashed away. 

Now was I left all lone and masterless. 

Two, whom I weened the greatest, had I served, 

And both of them a mightier lord had owned. 

Thus for awhile I stood in mute suspense, 

Not knowing what to do, what course to take. 

Then all at once a hopeful ray of light 
Athwart my darkened mind refulgent flashed : 

That cross, the sight of which the nether king 
Thus filled with terrors and away impelled, 

Had of itself, methought, no vital power; 

But was it not the sign of some one else, 

More strong, more powerful than either two? 

This question, then, my earnest searches asked, 

Nor could I rest, till I its answer knew. 

Each man I meet must I interrogate, 

Till from my eyes the scales of ignorance fall. 

At once I struck into the bushy gloom, 

The mountains crossed, athwart the rivers stepped. 
For these three days not sight of human kind 
Has lit my eye. Thou art the first I meet 
Since that dread day. Of thee instruction, 

If such thou canst me give, I humbly ask. 

Teach me the truth! My history thou know’st.” 


290 


LONGER POEMS. 


III. 

The hermit, as if lost, awhile 

Mused on the strange tale of his guest; 

Then, rising from his oaken seat, 

Thus tender-hearted him addressed : 

“ Thy words to me a sunlit realm 
Of heartfelt happiness unfold ; 

With joy in thee a brother gained 
To Christ and heaven I behold. 

t 

For he, at whose sign in the woods 
The hellish monster frightened fled, 

No other is than Christ, God’s Son, 

Who on such cross for men’s souls bled. 

i 

When our first parents ’mid the joys 
Of a celestial garden placed, 

In evil hour coyed by the foe, 

Their spotless innocence effaced ; 

The Maker just while he chastised 

With countless woes their hated crime, 

Yet promised them deliverance 

Through his Son in the course of time. 

That time two hundred years ago 
Has beamed on the benighted world, 

Has shackled the tartarean king, 

And realms of light and love unfurled. 


THE SAINTED GIANT. 


291 


Too late it now is to explain 

At length the truths and mysteries 

Of that religion, which thence spread 
Divinely o’er the lands and seas. 

To-morrow, when the genial sun 
Diffuses o’er the earth his light, 

With God’s help will I strive to free 
Thy soul from ignorance’s night.” 

He said, and to the couch him led, 

While he into his cell withdrew.— 

Night reigned athwart the slumbering earth, 
And through the trees the mild wind blew. 

IY. 

Deep rolled his waves the Adda 
By the mountains’ rugged side, 

O’er fixed and loose rocks tumbling 
With his mad, impetuous tide. 

The traveller sought vainly 

The rock-bedded stream to ford : 

The sharpened rocks his vitals 
With charybdian fury bored. 

The swimmer bold with terror 

From the corse-strewn billows ran. 

The architect strove vainly 

O’er the gulf his bridge to span. 


292 


LONGER POEMS. 


And yet a many wand’rer, 

Whom his distant homestead sped, 

Looked wistfully and sadly 
At the shore which from him fled. 

Now, on the eve of that day, 

When Adocymos was taught 

To know the mightiest Master, 

Lie so long in vain had sought; 

As through the dark-green forest 
By the river slow he walked, 

And mused upon his happ’ness, 

And with joy to his heart talked ; 

He saw a little old man,— 

Though to him all little seemed,— 

Who quickly changed his footprints, 
And whose face with ardor gleamed. 

But oh! the boist’rous river 
At once his hurry checked : 

Dismayed he stood and heartless, 

As if there his hopes had wrecked. 

Quick rushed a thought of goodness 
O’er Adocymos’s mind : 

He sprang from out the thicket, 

And offered his shoulders kind. 

At first the man stands frightened 
At the giant’s stalwart size ; 

But kind words and his homestead 
O’er his fears victorious rise. 


THE SAINTED GIANT. 


293 


He seats him on his shoulder, 

Like a babe is carried o’er, 

And ere he scarcely knows it, 

Is placed on the other shore. 

Before he can his thanks give, 

His carrier with giant stride 
Has crossed the foaming river, 

And stepped on the other side. 

With heart buoyant in him 
Then Adocymos addressed 
His ghostly sire, the hermit, 

And his new resolve confessed : 

“ Dear father, if it please thee, 

My new Master will 1 serve 
In carrying the wand’rer 

O’er the river with strong nerve.” 

The hermit smiled approval, 

And he blessed his penitent, 
Whom thus a noble warrior 
To his army God had sent. 

At once they built a cottage 
On the river’s rocky shore, 

That day and night the traveller 
Might be quickly carried o’er. 

Adocymos lived in it: 

And whene’er at night or day 
He heard the wand’rer calling, 

Not a moment was his stay. 

26 


t 


294 


LONGER POEMS. 


His tree he grasped and waded 

With his burden through the wave; 

Whence aptly all the people 
Him the name of Offerus gave. 

Now once upon an evening, 

When the sharp, cold northwind blew, 

And rain in torrents clattered, 

And the darkness thicker grew: 

“No traveller,” thought OfFerus, 

“ Will on such a night assay 

To meet the raging terrors 
Of the elements’ affray. 

Hence on my couch I’ll lay me, 

Till the sun refulgent beams, 

And nature cleansed and chastened 
With refreshing verdure teems.” 

He said, and with a prayer 
Shut his eyes to sweet repose ; 

When sudden thwart the river 
An infantile voice arose : 

“ Oh Offerus, come over !” 

At once the gallant bearer 
To his feet heroic sprang, 

And hurried through the waters 
Where the childish clamor rang. 


THE SAINTED GIANT. 


295 


But vain he sought the crier, 

Naught he heard but tempest’s roar; 

And vexed the swelling torrent 
He recrossed to his own shore. 

Again he closed his eyelids 
To the balm of soft repose; 

When from the self-same quarter 
The same infant voice arose : 

“ Good Ofiferus, come over !” 

Galled with such troubling clamor, 
Where before no child appeared, 

He yet with patient ardor 

To the voice mysterious steered. 

But not a soul he met with, 

Though he searched all o’er the shore; 

And almost sunk disheartened 
To his home he waded o’er. 

Yet scarcely for the third time 
Had his eyes enjoyed repose, 

When ’gain athwart the river 
That infantile voice arose : 

“ Oh Ofiferus, come over !” 

Impatient now and furious 

From his troubled couch he leaped ; 

And foaming through the waters 
With his giant stride he stepped. 


296 


LONGER POEMS. 


Not vainly now ’mid darkness 
For the mystic child he sought: 

A wondrous glaring circle 

Into light the darkness wrought. 

And in it sate an infant. 

Such a sweet and lovely boy, 

That Offerus’s stern heart 
Had to melt with tender joy. 

He placed him on his shoulder : 

Like a plume so light he seemed; 

That scarce he knew he bore him, 
Except for the light he beamed. 

He stepped into the water 
With his burden sweet and light: 

He held him with his left hand, 

And the tree grasped with his right. 

But barely a few paces 

Through the billows he had made, 

When heavier and heavier 

On his shoulders th’ infant weighed. 

Surprised and with suspicion 
The little stranger he eyed, 

Who thus his strength and patience 
So unmercifully tried. 

His heavenly glance however 
On his path him onward sped; 

Though heavier and heavier 
He pressed on his wearied head. 


THE SAINTED GIANT. 


29T 


When in the river’s middle, 

Like a mount the burden grew : 

From Offerus’s brow dropped 

The sweat like summer-night’s dew. 

His swimming eyes ran over, 

His strong knees beneath him shook, 

His sinewy arms hung quiv’ring, 

And his spirit him forsook. 

And yet, strange thing ! he fell not, 
Though he staggered more and more ; 

But braving the wild surges 
He securely reached the shore. 

There down he dropped his burden, 

He could scarcely draw his breath ; 

And sinking on the greensward 
He awaited coming death. 

But quickly now the infant 
The exhausted giant raised, 

And in a brighter circle 

High in air before him blazed. 

“ Good Offerus !” thus spake he : 

“ Be surprised and weak no more : 

Know that thine arms me carrying 
Thine own God and Saviour bore ! 

No wonder that like mountains 
On thy shoulders I should press, 

Whom not the mountains only, 

But all creatures God confess. 

26 * 


298 


LONGER POEMS. 


Hence Christopher I call thee ; 

That this new and sweetest name 
May through the earth and heavens 
Thee the happiest man proclaim. 

That e’er it may remind thee 
Of thy Master new and strong, 
And telling thee, thou bor’st him, 
May thee save from every wrong. 

That, when before the praetor 

Thou ere long for me shalt stand, 
O’er fire and sword triumphing 
Thou may’st join my martyr-band. 

Then shall thy soul, which bravely 
Like thy body now me bore, 

On angel wings uplifted 

To my heavenly kingdom soar !” 


EPILOGUE. 


Aecipe, per longos tibi qui deserviat annos: 

Accij e, qui pura norit amare fide !—Ovid. 

Take, my Love, this wreath of flowers 
Woven by the crystal spring, 

Where beneath the shady bowers 
Thy dear praise I used to sing ! 

Where entranced in sweet communion 
Swift the hours like minutes flew, 
Where in bands of closer union 
To thee e’er thy love me drew. 

Well thou know’st the sultry morning, 
When atween the darkling wood, 
Heedless of thy tender warning, 

Lone and sorrowing I stood ; 

How the sky began to lower 

With a black and threatening cloud, 
And in torrents poured the shower 
’Mid the thunder pealing loud. 

Lit with wrath the sulphurous heaven 
All on fire appeared around, 

And the sturdy oak-tree riven 
Smoked before me on the ground. 

( 299 ) 


300 


EPILOGUE. 


Seized with fear my bosom quivered 
At the blazing forest’s light, 

And my knees beneath me shivered 
With a cold and thrilling fright. 

Then, as if to flee the heaven 
All on fire with sulphur blue, 

From the oak wflth lightning riven 
Through the crackling trees I flew: 

Flew and flew, I knew not whither, 
Flew with ever swifter wing ; 

Till at last by thee brought thither 
Sank I by the crystal spring. 

Thus methinks ; for ’mid the pealing 
Thunder and the hail-storms clank, 

Somewhere in the woods I reeling 
With exhaustion downward sank; 

Slept and when I waked, the shower 
From the murky sky had fled ; 

O’er me a vimineous bower 
Of luxuriant ivy spread. 

In his pathway clear and bluely 

The bright day-king’s chariot rolled, 

And the dripping beech-trees viewly 
Sparkled in his refluent gold. 

All through valley and on mountain 
Trilled the bird his carol sweet; 

Mimicking his song the fountain 
Rippled playsome at my feet. 


EPILOGUE. 


301 


Then—oh, how can still a member 
In my body joyless be, 

When the beauty I remember 
Wherein thou appear’dst to me !— 

From my soul at once the sorrow 
Of the lost past drifted by; 

In thy love the rosy morrow 
Of the future lit the sky. 

Bird’s song then and fountain’s ripplet 
Bade me sing thy tender praise, 

Called on me to ope with liplet 
Of sweet song thy rapturous lays. 

So I sang, and sang unrested; 

And the more I sang thy name, 

Thy unrivalled beauty wrested 
From my heart a brighter flame. 

Day by day my songs unceasing 
From the fountain to thee flew; 

Day by day my love increasing 
Nearer to thy breast me drew. 

Till, this morn so gayly painted 
Were the flowers and were so fair, 

And with balmy odors scented 
Waved so calm and sheen the air; 

That, while carolling my measures 
With the songsters perched above, 

I the flowery meadow’s treasures 
Wove into a wreath of love. 


302 


EPILOGUE. 


Why the rose and lily gleaning 
I inwrought with chosen art, 

Thou know’st best the hidden meaning, 
Bedded in my loving heart. 

Take then, Love, this wreath of flowers 
Woven by the crystal spring, 

Where beneath the shady bowers 
Thy sweet praise I used to sing ! 


NOTES 


o- 


Page 38. 

Ah! I despise this vulgar throng, these minions of gain! 

The sentiments ascribed to Augustus in this poem are fully corrobo¬ 
rated by all trustworthy historians. He evidently was devoid of all 
human sympathy and affection. His sole aim was absolute power, and 
to attain his tyrannical ends, he was always ready to adopt cruel as 
well as lenient measures. “ His virtues ” (if such they can be called) “ and 
even his vices were feigned, and in accordance with the demand of his 
selfish interests he was at first the enemy, at last the father, of the Roman 
world.”— Schappner, Characters of Universal History, vol. i. p. 513. 


Page 40. 

Thy f atoning hard their secret pleasures wantonly shall gaze, 

And sing thy shame, ere end in Mcesia's wastes his gloomy days. 

Critics have gone into various opinions concerning the cause of Ovid’s 
banishment. I have adopted the most probable, that of Tiraboschi, ac¬ 
cording to whom the poet had been the involuntary witness of some 
moral turpitude in the imperial family. The licentiousness of the Julias 
is well calculated to establish such a supposition. Ovid had the impru¬ 
dence to divulge the secret, thus drawing on himself the wrath of the 
emperor, who seems to have been very punctilious in all that related to 
family decorum. Ilis banishment fell like a thunderbolt on the amorous 
poet: to be exiled from the pleasant gardens of his youthful amours 
was, no doubt, a severe blow on one whose heaven lay in sensual pleas¬ 
ures; but why he could not find a glimpse of consolation in the hope of 

( 803 ) 




304 


NOTES. 


that immortal fame, which he ought to have foreseen would be derived 
even more from his punishment than from his elegies, appears rather 
unexpected. Yet not only did he whine like a woman in his exile; he 
so far forgot himself as to supplicate the pardon of the tyrant in the most 
extravagant adulations. This has justly drawn on him the censure and 
contempt of after ages. 


Page 57. 

From her palace-bordered streets hid in the darlcness lone and dense 
Wound the youth into the dim-lit halls of the Valerian gens. 

Not only were anciently the streets of even largo cities hid in the pro- 
foundest dark during a moonless night; the very houses were but poorly 
and scantily lighted. Says Becker: “One of the imperfections in the 
domestic economy of the ancients was the universal use of oil-lamps. 
Had they provided against the uncleanliness by having glass cylinders 
to consume the smoke ( fuligo ), we should not he so much surprised at 
the preference given to oil over tallow and wax. But they had no in¬ 
vention of the sort, and in spite of all the elegance and ingenuity dis¬ 
played in their lamps of bronze and precious metals, the ancients could 
not prevent their ornamented ceilings from being blackened, and their 
breathing oppressed, by smoke. The nature of the country doubtless 
led them to use oil, but its cheapness does not appear a sufficient reason 
for their having continued to bear its discomforts, and we must therefore 
rather suppose that at that time wax and tallow candles were not made 
skillfully enough to afford a good light: hence we lind that the lucerna 
was used by the poor, whilst the smoky oil-lamp was burned in the 
palaces of the wealthy.”— Gallus. Fxc., iv. p. 308. 

Ibidem. 

Gently rapped the bridal chamber's door; 

Oped the valves. 

“The method of fastening varied according to the form of the doors 
themselves, whether they opened inwards or outwards, or were folding- 
doors (bifores), or opened like window-shutters ( valvse ). Varro: Valvse 
sunt qiue revolvuntur et se vclant." Idem ibidem, p. 281. 

The ancients w r ere certainly polite enough not to enter a house or 
apartment without first knocking. The same illustrious author says in 
his Charicles: “Although the house-door was not locked in the day-time, 
still nobody thought of entering without previously tapping or other- 


NOTES. 


305 


wise announcing himself, and waiting for permission to enter. The 
usual method was to tap, except among the Spartans, who called out.”— 
Page 54. 


Page 65. 

On many a gory field, 

Had they 'neath their eagle twelfth 
Forced the haughty foe to yield. 

The eagle was the standard of a legion; the ensigns including the eagle 
and which were called signa, were the standards of the single cohorts 
composing a legion. 

“ St. Gregory of Nyssa and Procopius say, they (the Martyrs of Sebaste) 
were of the thundering legion, so famous under Marcus Aurelius for the 
miraculous rain and victory obtained by their prayers. This was the 
twelfth legion, and then quartered in Armenia.”— Butler's Lives of the 
Saints, vol. iii., March 10th. 


Page 70. 

Upon the horizontal shaft four lesser crosses gleamed. 

The description here given is taken from ancient medals commemora¬ 
tive of the event, and represented in the above work. Vol. ix., Sept. 14th. 


Page 76. 

Carisius and Otelia. 

This poem is designed to portray the chivalric love of the Middle Ages. 
The characters are purely imaginary; but they find a realization in 
numerous examples, that occurred during those too often misrepresented 
times, when true love and heroism were accounted superior to the paltry 
speculation which characterizes our own age. 


Page 93. 

Allah Achbar! i.e. God is great: the rallying cry of the Moslems. 
El Zogoyhi. the Unfortunate; a name given to King Boaddil, or Abdal¬ 
lah, on account of his truly distressing misfortunes. 

27 


306 


NOTES. 


Page 94. 

Still he thought of dire Malaga, 

Andalusia’s horrid grave. 

The Spanish chivalry could never forget the disastrous defeat they 
had suffered in the mountains of Malaga; and in every subsequent en¬ 
counter they were anxious to blot out the stain their arms had there 
received from a handful of Infidel boors. See Irving’s Granada, c. xiii. 
et seqq. 


Page 109. 

The lowly friar also mingled in the stately throng, 

The queen and ladies to refresh with prayer and pious song. 

“ The reverend prelates and holy friars, who always surrounded the 
queen, looked with serene satisfaction, says Fray Antonio Agapida, at 
•this modern Babylon (Granada), enjoying the triumph that awaited 
them, when those mosques and minarets should be converted into 
churches, and goodly priests and bishops should succeed to the infidel 
alfaquis.” Idem, ut supra, c. xciii. Saintly, indeed, those priests and 
bishops must have been, when they had before their eyes such a model 
of perfection as the grand cardinal of Spain and confessor to the queen, 
the venerable Pedro Gonzalez de Mendoza, whose natural son, Rodrigo, 
accompanied him in the war. But, of course, he was a grandee, and 
high-born personages have a peculiar privilege even in the Church, ac¬ 
cording to the veracious testimonies of holy theologians. 


Page 116. 

Breathes out his soul unknown to agony’s pain. 

From the observations and consequent testimonies of skilled surgeons 
and physiognomists it appears that many, who die on the field of battle, 
pass from this life without the slightest agony—the transition being so 
sudden as to preclude the possibility of the pain of separation being felt. 
This, they say, is proved from the features, which are so regular and 
composed as to make one almost doubt whether they belong to the 
living or the dead. 


NOTES. 


307 


Page 126. 

God eternal and almighty, etc. 

“In the Tablas Chronologicas of Padre Claudio Clemente, is conserved 
a form of prayer, said to have been used by Columbus on this occasion, 
and which, by order of the Castilian sovereigns, was afterwards used by 
Balboa, Cortez, and Pizarro, in their discoveries. ‘ Domine Deus teterue 
et omnipotens, sacro tuo verbo coelum et terrain et mare creasti; bene- 
dicatur et glorificetur nomen tuum, laudetur tua majestas, qua; dignita 
est per humilem servum tuum, ut ejus sacrum nomen agnoscatur et 
pradicetur in hac altera mundi parte.’ ”— Irving's Columbus, vol. i. p.156. 


Page 134. 

The magic bell of Turey. 
Turey: the heaven of the Hayti Indians. 


Page 152. 

Who but the truculent Puritan clan, 

E’er bent on deeds of woe! 

Having such testimony as the following before me, it cannot be won¬ 
dered if in this poem I have given vent to expressions, which to some 
may appear hard and even shocking. “ The annals of mankind contain, 
perhaps, no such example of unrelenting tyranny on the one haDd, of 
abject bondage to human traditions on the other, as that which is dis¬ 
played in the acts, the laws, and the literature of the Puritans of New 
England. Professing to frame their daily life by the maxims of the New 
Testament, it may be affirmed without exaggeration, that no race of men, 
since the Gospel was first preached on earth, have ever violated its spirit 
with such remorseless consistency. They were not, perhaps, conscious 
hypocrites, for most of them had deceived themselves before they de¬ 
ceived others; but this, if we judge them by the narratives of their own 
historians, is nearly the only crime of which these Arabs of the Reforma¬ 
tion were guiltless. It would be difficult to find in them so much as one 
lineament of the true Christian character. Humility, modesty, meekness, 
patience, forbearance, obedience, charity—against these, and all the kin¬ 
dred graces of the disciples of the Cross, every word and deed of their life 


308 


NOTES. 


was an unvarying protest. Never were they so utterly unchristian, in 
every thought, feeling, and desire, as when they were preaching what 
they called ‘ the Gospelnever were they so full of cruel arrogance, 
haughty defiance, bitter menace, and incurable self-righteousness, as 
when they vehemently called God to witness that they were his peculiar 
people. They had fled from England to enjoy ‘ liberty of conscience,’ and 
they proved their love of liberty by refusing it to all who dared to inter¬ 
pret a text otherwise than themselves.”— Marshall, Christian Missions, 
vol. ii. p. 342. This sweeping denunciation seems to be confirmed by 
contemporary authority, among others by Puritanical oracles cited in 
Bancroft. “‘ God forbid,’ said Dudley, ‘ our love for the truth should be 
grown so cold, that we should tolerate errors.—I die no libertine.’— 
‘ Better tolerate hypocrites and tares than thorns and briers,’ affirmed 
Cotton. ‘ Poly-piety,’ echoed Ward, ‘ is the greatest impiety in the world. 
To say that men ought to have liberty of conscience is impious igno¬ 
rance.’—‘Religion,’ said the melancholic Norton, ‘admits of no eccentric 
motions.’ ”— History of the United States, vol. i. p. 449. It appears, how¬ 
ever, that not the mass of the Puritans, but only some of their ringleaders, 
were in favor of such inhuman persecution: at all events, the sons have 
nobly wiped out the disgrace of their intolerant sires. And of these, in¬ 
deed, enough hath been said. 


Page 157. 

Marquette. 

It can easily be perceived, that this poem is little more than a para¬ 
phrase of Bancroft’s brilliant account of that renowned missionary. 
Something of Longfellow’s delectable “ Song of Hiawatha” may likewise 
be detected in it as well as in another juvenile production, “Our 
Country.” Yet, as these were my first attempts at poetry, whether suc¬ 
cessful or not, they necessarily have in my eyes a peculiar charm. 


Page 171. 

In the land vdiich to Pizarro 
Lent a great but bloody fame. 

The writer of these lines is far from subscribing to the indiscriminate 
condemnation of the Conqueror of Peru. Prejudicial historians have not 
in the least degree lessened his admiration for a man, who beneath the 


NOTES. 


309 


blood-stained coat of mail bore a heart beating with the tenderest sym¬ 
pathies of a God-inspired religion. He fully concurs in the following 
tribute given to the daring Spaniard by an English writer of merited 
renown. “ Whether he was starving in the Island of Gorgona with his 
fourteen dauntless followers, or leading on his handful of comrades to 
battles in which they were one against a thousand, or plucking the Inca 
with his own hand from his litter in the great square of Cassamarca, he 
was ever, after his kind, a soldier of the Cross.” As such he showed him¬ 
self throughout his life, but particularly in his last moments, when fall¬ 
ing under the swords of assassins, “ he drew the sign of the cross on the 
floor with his own blood, kissed with his dying lips the emblem of salva¬ 
tion, and with that supreme act of love and contrition passed to his ac¬ 
count.”—Marshall, ut supra, p. 233. 


Page 179. 

To a Ciceronian. 

The praise bestowed on the great orator in this poem is but a faint 
echo of the eulogy given him by that prince of rhetoricians, Marcus 
Fabius Quintilianus, in his Institutio Oratoria, Lib. x. c. i. 108-113. 


Page 213. 

TP horn pope and bishops heedlessly 
A heretic portrayed, 

To him the saints of Italy 
As to a martyr prayed. 

“ St. Catherine de Ricci used to invoke him in prayer, which circum¬ 
stance caused his innocence to be investigated in the process of her 
canonization; and St. Philip Neri, who kept in his chamber the picture 
of Savonarola, prayed to God, that he might preserve him from the re¬ 
probation of after ages.”— Schceppner's Characters, vol. ii. p.533. What¬ 
ever has been advanced by me is, I think, founded on trustworthy au¬ 
thority. The fate of Savonarola is a proof of the lamentable fact, that 
persons in dignity, whether civil or ecclesiastical, often abuse their 
authority, and under the cloak of infallibility conceal and foster their 
own fallible degradation. 


310 


NOTES. 


Page 213. 

La Cliarbonniere. 

This poem is intended as a tribute of grateful admiration for the 
Society of Jesuits. An array of nobler champions in the service of reli¬ 
gion and literature has never yet appeared, nor can any other easily 
supply their place. 

Page 235. 

The breast of Melesigenes inspired. 

Melesigenes: an appellative of Homer, whom his mother Critheis 
brought forth on the banks of the river Meles. Venusia: the birth-place 
of Horace. 


Page 244. 

But men like they, possessed of fiendish mind, 

Must ever quaff the blood of human kind. 

Of all the monsters that desolate the earth, there is none so truculent 
and heinous as a barbarian stimulated by the furies of a false religion. 
To exaggerate the outrages and cruelties perpetrated by the Vandals in 
Proconsular Africa would be as impossible as to delineate them in de¬ 
serving colors. See Butler in his life of St. Augustine, vol. viii., where 
he quotes a passage from Possidius, Bishop of Calama, an eye-witness of 
the Vandal atrocities. 

Page 245. 

Oh happy me! who in my native land 
Have lived to see cut twain the last slave's band. 

Howsoever interested motives may prepossess and lead astray the minds 
of politicians, the soul that is humane and Christian will ever hail the 
victory of the North over the South as the triumph of union over dis¬ 
union, of government over anarchy, of order over disorder, but especially 
as that of civilization and humanity over barbarism and cruelty. Never 
was the sword of man drawn in a better cause, than when it severed the 
bonds of his enslaved brother. 


FINIS. 





























































